PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 150.

April 12th, 1916.

Junior Sub. "The Colonel says will you dismiss the parade, Sir?"

Newly-mounted Captain. "Confound it! Do it yourself, Smith. I'm busy riding."

CHARIVARIA.

We are in a position to state that the efficiency of Germany's new submersible Zeppelins has been greatly exaggerated.

Many schemes for coping with our £2,100,000,000 War indebtedness are before the authorities, and at least one dear old lady has written suggesting that they should hold a bazaar.

It is stated that the monkey market at Constantinople, which for hundreds of years has supplied the baboons found in Turkish harems, has closed down. German competition is said to be responsible for the incident.

The Government's indifference to the balloon type of aircraft has received a further illustration. They have rejected Highgate's fat conscript.

German scientists are now making explosives out of heather. Fortunately the secret of making Highlanders out of the same material still remains in our hands.

Deference to one's superiors in rank is all very well up to a point, but we should never go so far as to allow an article by a titled war-correspondent to be headed "The Great Offensive at Verdun."

British songsters, says a writer in The Daily Chronicle, are now being illegally used to regale the wealthy gourmets of the West End in place of the foreign varieties, which can no longer be imported. For ourselves, who are nothing if not British, we are glad of any sign that native musicians are coming by their own.

The practice of interning travellers in Tube and other stations during the progress of Zeppelin raids on the North-East Coast having become extremely popular, it is suggested that some much-needed revenue might be obtained by imposing a small tax—a penny, say, per hour—upon those who thus enjoy the protection and hospitality of our railways.

It is officially announced that Oxford is to have no more Rhodes Kolossals.

Lord Robert Cecil admitted in Parliament last week that the contraband list is to be enlarged, and it is rumoured that, notwithstanding the serious effect the step may have in the United States and elsewhere, the list will be extended to include munitions of war.

A prominent City barber points out to an Evening News correspondent that it would be most unfortunate if the high cost of shaves should result in a discontinuance of the practice of tipping the operator, and adds that only two of the services have increased in price. He means, of course, to draw attention to the fact that sporting chatter, dislocation of the neck, and the removal of superfluous portions of the ears are still provided free of charge.

Anti-Climax.

From a feuilleton (showing what our serial fictionists have to put up with):—

"'To-morrow?' repeated Rosalie, dully. 'I'm afraid I can't to-morrow.'

To-morrow——!

There will be another fine instalment to-morrow."—Daily Mirror.

OF COCOA

and certain old associations revived by a draught of this nutritious bean.

["The rate on cocoa is raised from 1-½d. to 6d. per lb." (Loud cheers). The Chancellor's Budget Speech.]

Now, ere the price thereof goes soaring up,
Ere yet the devastating tax comes in,
I wish to wallow in the temperate cup
(Loud cheers) that not inebriates, like gin;
Ho, waiter! bring me—nay, I do not jest—
A cocoa of the best!

Noblest of all non-alcoholic brews,
Rich nectar of the Nonconformist Press,
Tasting of Cadbury and The Daily News,
Of passive martyrs and the law's distress,
And redolent of the old narcotic spice
Of peace-at-any-price—

What memories, how intolerably sweet,
Hover about its fat and unctuous fumes!
Of Little England and a half-baked Fleet,
Of German friendship pure as vernal blooms,
And that dear country's hallowed right to dump
Things on us in the lump;

Of tropic isles whereon this beverage springs,
And niggers sweating out their pagan souls;
Of British workmen, flattered even as kings,
So to secure their suffrage at the polls;
Of liberty for all to go on strike
Just when and where they like.

I would renew these wistful dreams to-night;
For, since upon my precious nibs, when ground,
McKenna's minions, with to-morrow's light,
Will plant a tax of sixpence in the pound,
My sacred memories, cheap enough before,
Will clearly cost me more.

O. S.

ANOTHER SCRAP OF PAPER.

I look all right, and I feel all right, but the doctor said the Army was no place for me. Having given me a piece of paper which said so, he looked over my head and called out, "Next, please." It was with this document I was going to produce a delicious thrill—what I might call an "electric" moment. I carefully rehearsed what should happen, though I was not quite sure what attitude to adopt—whether to give the impression that I was a member of a pacific society, look elaborately unconcerned or truculently youthful. This, I decided, had better be left to the psychological moment.

I would take my seat or strap in the crowded tram or train. Observing that I wore neither khaki nor armlet someone would want to know why "a big, strong, healthy-looking fellow like you was not in the Army." I should then try to look pacific or elaborately—see above again. But I should say nothing. My studied silence would annoy everybody. I was quite sure of this, because I really can do that sort of silence very well. The inevitable old woman with a bundle would fix me with her watery eye. "The man in the street," who, of course, would now be in the tram or train, would give a brief history of his three sons and one brother-in-law at the Front. The armleted conductor (we are now in the tram) would give my ticket a very rude punch and my penny a very angry stare. When I was quite sure I had been set down as a slacker, I should produce the doctor's certificate of exemption. In my ultra-polite manner, which is nearly as good as my annoying silence, I should hand it to the man whose three sons and one brother-in-law had evidently been writing for more cigarettes. I would