PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 158.
May 12th, 1920.
CHARIVARIA.
We are pleased to note that the King’s yacht Britannia is about again after being laid up since August, 1914.
Smoking and chatting periods have been introduced in some Massachusetts factories. Extremists in this country complain that, while this system may be all right, there is just the danger that working periods might also be introduced.
We are pleased to report that the eclipse of the moon on May 3rd passed off without any serious hitch. This speaks well for the police arrangements.
“Audiences at the music-halls,” writes an actor to the Press, “are more difficult to move on Saturdays than on other days.” This is not our experience. On a Saturday we have often withdrawn without any pressure after the first turn or two.
Sir L. Worthington Evans, says a contemporary, has been asked to investigate the mutton glut. What is wanted, we understand, is more glutton and less mutt.
Mme. Landru, the wife of the Parisian “Bluebeard,” has been granted a divorce. We gather that there is something or other about her husband which made their tastes incompatible.
It appears that Mr. Jerry McVeagh is of the opinion that the Home Rule Bill is quite all right except where it applies to Ireland.
A visit to the Royal Academy this year again encourages us to believe that, though we may be a bad nation, we are not so bad as we are painted.
According to a morning paper a commercial traveller who became violently ill in the Strand was found to have a small feather stuck in the lower part of the throat. If people will eat fresh eggs in restaurants they must be prepared to put up with the consequences.
The report that no inconvenience was experienced by any of the passengers in the South London train which collided with a stationary goods-engine now turns out to be incorrect. It transpires that a flapper complains that she dropped two stitches in her jumper as a result of the shock.
A water-spaniel was responsible last week for the overturning of a motor-car driven by a Superintendent of the Police near Norton Village in Hertfordshire. We understand that the dog has had his licence endorsed for reckless walking.
According to a Manchester paper a new tram, while being tested, jumped the lines and collided with a lamp-post. It is hoped that, when it grows more accustomed to street noises, it will get over this tendency to nervous excitement.
A serious set-back to journalism is reported from South Africa. It appears that the Army aviator who flew from England to his home at Johannesburg, after an absence of four and a half years, deliberately arranged to see his parents before being interviewed by reporters.
In a London Police Court the other day a defendant stated that he was so ashamed of his crime that he purchased a revolver with the intention of shooting himself. On second thoughts he let himself off with a caution.
Apparently the clothing of the Royal Air Force is not yet complete. Large headings announcing an R.A.F. Divorce Suit appeared in several papers recently, although its design and colouring were not mentioned.
Builders have been notified that the prices of wall-paper are to be raised forty to fifty per cent. In view of the vital part played by the wall-paper in the construction of the modern house, the announcement has caused widespread consternation among building contractors.
An American contemporary inquires why Germany cannot settle down. A greater difficulty appears to be her inability to settle up.
A shop at Twickenham bears the notice, “Shaving while you wait.” This obviates the inconvenience of leaving one’s chin at the barber’s overnight.
“Life and property,” writes a correspondent, “are as safe in Hungary to-day as they are in England.” It should be borne in mind that there is usually a motive underlying these alarmist reports.
“It is ten days,” writes a naturalist, “since I heard the unmistakable ‘Cuck, cuck, cuck’ of the newly-arrived cuckoo at Hampstead.” Not to be confused with the “Cook, cook, cook!” of the newly-married housewife at Tooting.
A weekly paper has an article entitled “The Lost Haggis.” We always have our initials put on a haggis with marking ink before despatching it to be tailor-pressed.
At the annual meeting of the National Federation of Fish-fryers the President asked whether it was not possible to make fried fish shops more attractive. It appears that no serious attempt has yet been made to discover a fish that gives off an aroma of violets when fried.
The Directors of the Underground offer a prize of twenty pounds to their most polite employee. We have always felt that the conductor who pushes you off a crowded train might at least raise his hat to you as he moves out of the station.
After considering the Budget very carefully some people are veering round to the theory that we didn’t win the War, but just bought it.
“What’s ’is business?”
“’E’s a taxidermist.”
“Oh, is ’e? Well, ’e seems to ’ave done better out of it than I ’ave.”
The Scarecrow Profession.
“Wanted, Youth of sixteen for one of the healthiest jobs in the world, most of the time spent basking in the sun, listening to skylarks and throstles; wages 35s. guaranteed to smart youth. Lots of weaklings have been set on their feet and prepared to face the world at this situation.”—Provincial Paper.
TO A BRICKLAYER IN REPOSE.
Rest from your work, awhile, my son,
And let a mug of beer replace
The moisture—sign of duty done—
That oozes from your honest face;
Your tale of bricks,
A long hour’s task, already totals 6.
Our goose that lays the bars of gold
Must not incur too big a strain;
Nor need you, as I think, be told
To keep a check on hand and brain,
Lest you exceed
Your Union’s limit in respect of speed.
For homes a homeless people cries,
But you’ve a principle at stake;
Though fellow-workers, lodged in styes,
Appeal to you for Labour’s sake
To fill their lack,
Shall true bricklayers waive their Right to Slack?
Never! You’ll lay what bricks you choose,
And let the others waste their breath,
These myriads, ranged in weary queues,
Who desperately quote Macbeth:—
“Lay on,
And damned be he that first cries ‘Hold, enough’!”
Your high profession stands apart;
By years of toil you’ve learned the trick
(Like Pheidias with his plastic art)
Of slapping mortar on a brick;
Touched too the summit
Of science with your lore of line and plummet.
And none may join your sacred Guild,
Save only graduates (so to speak),
Experts with hod and trowel, skilled
In the finesse of pure technique:
And that is why
No rude untutored soldier need apply.
O.S.
KING’S REGULATIONS, PARA. 1696.
I have been in the Army for over five years; I have wallowed in Flanders mud; I have killed thousands of Huns with my own hand; I have seen my friends resume the habiliment of gentlemen and retire to a life of luxury and ease; and yet I am still in the Army.
I am informed that I am indispensable and that, although I shall be allowed to go in due course, the fate of the nation depends on my sticking to my job for a short time more. It would be against the best interests of discipline for me to tell you what my job is.
Last week I yearned for a civilian life and decided that not only would I leave the Army but immediately and in good style.
I laid my plans accordingly and proceeded to Mr. Nathan’s. There for the expenditure of a few shillings I purchased the necessary material for my guile.
I retired to my office, that is the desk that I sit at in a room with two other officers, and I armed myself with a file which would act as a passport to the Assistant of a Great Man, who in turn is Assistant to a Very Great Man. They all reside at the War Office. I went there and was conducted to the Assistant of the Great Man. Everything was proceeding according to plan.
I found him, after the manner of Assistants, working hard. He did not look up, so I laid my file before him. It was entitled “Demobilization, letters concerning,” and this was followed by a long number divided up by several strokes. Within the file were some letters that had nothing to do with my plan and still less to do with demobilization, but I hoped that the Assistant of the Great Man might not delve too deeply into their mysteries.
My hope was justified. “A personal application?” he asked as he glanced at the reference number.
“Undoubtedly, Sir,” I replied, and something in the soldierly timbre of my voice arrested his attention.
Carefully replacing his teacup in its saucer he raised his eyes towards me. As he did so he started as though he had received a shock; a look of perturbation came over his features; his cheeks assumed an ashy tint and for a moment my fate trembled in the balance. But gradually I could see his years of training were reasserting themselves; the moral support of the O.B.E. on his breast was restoring his courage; he muttered to himself, and I caught the words “Superior Authority.”
Still muttering he rose and retired into the next room. Everything was proceeding according to plan.
In less than a minute he reappeared and beckoned me to follow him. I then knew that I should soon be in the presence of the Great Man himself.
I stood in front of an oak desk and noticed the keen but suppressed energy of the wall-paper, the tense atmosphere of war vibrating through the room, the solid strength of England incarnate behind the oak desk.
The Great Man spoke. His opening words showed that his interest was centred rather in me personally than in the file that lay before him. He spoke again, rose from his seat and disappeared. And as he went I caught the words, “Superior Authority.” In less than a minute he returned and beckoned me to follow him. I then knew that I should soon be in the presence of the Very Great Man himself. Everything was proceeding according to plan.
I stood in front of a mahogany desk and noticed the keener but more suppressed energy of the wall-paper, the tenser atmosphere of war vibrating through the room, the solid strength of the Empire incarnate behind the mahogany desk.
The Very Great Man spoke. His opening remarks showed that his interest was centred in me personally. He spoke again, and these are his exact words: “Mr. Jones,” he said, “I perceive that you are a student of King’s Regulations, and that you conform your actions to those estimable rules. You will be demobilised forthwith, and in view of your gallant service I have pleasure in awarding you a bonus of two hundred pounds in addition to your gratuity; but please understand that this exceptional remuneration is given on the condition that you are out of uniform within two hours.”
With my feet turned out at an angle of about forty-five degrees, my knees straight, my body erect and carried evenly over the thighs, I saluted, about turned and marched to the door. Everything had proceeded according to plan.
As I reached the door the Very Great Man spoke to the Great Man. “You will draft an Army Order at once,” he said, “in these words: King’s Regulations. Amendment. Para. 1696 will be amended, and the following words deleted:—‘Whiskers, if worn, will be of moderate length.’”
I am still in the Army. The truth of the matter is that what I have described did not really happen. My nerve failed me at the door of Mr. Nathan’s. But I believe that whiskers, detachable, red, can be obtained from Mr. Nathan for a few shillings.
Motto for the Anti-British Écho de Paris: “Ludum insolentem ludere Pertinax.”
EXPERT OPINION.
First Bricklayer (pausing so as not to exceed his Union’s speed limit). “BOUGHT ANY OF THESE ’OUSING BONDS, MATE?”
Second Bricklayer (ditto). “NOT ME; THEY’LL NEVER GET NO ’OUSES BUILT, NOT IF THINGS GO ON THE WAY THEY’RE GOING.”
DENMARK TO HAVE A MANDATE FOR IRELAND.
Sensation in Political Circles.
Dashing round to Downing Street on our motor-scooter we were just in time to catch Sir Philip Kerr by one of his coat-tails as he was disappearing into the door of No. 10 and to ask him whether the strange rumour as to the Prime Minister’s latest project was true.
“Perfectly,” replied the genial Secretary, gently disengaging us. “Mr. Lloyd George has been greatly struck by Mr. Jack Jones’s comparison of Lord Robert Cecil to Oliver Cromwell, and has been studying the whole Irish Question anew from an historical standpoint. He has decided that the mandate for Ireland ought never to have been undertaken for the Papal See by Henry II. Strongbow——”
“Let’s see, wasn’t he a Marathon runner?” we asked.
“You are thinking of Longboat,” he replied. “The Earl of Pembroke
“Quite, quite,” we replied. As a matter of fact, if he had mentioned “The Silent Wife” we should have felt a bit more at home with the situation.
“Now take the Danes,” said Sir Philip. “Do you ever hear an Irishman complain of the injustice done to Ireland by the Danes? After that little scrap at Clontarf they accepted the Danish invasion quite naturally. Anyhow, the Danes got there first, and the Prime Minister’s view is ‘first come first served.’”
“But will Denmark undertake the mandate?” we asked doubtfully.
“Why not? They have Iceland already, and there is only one letter different.”
Scooting thoughtfully away, we went to visit Mr. T. P. O’Connor, feeling sure he would have some light to throw on the situation. We found him overjoyed with the proposal.
“Ireland and Denmark are simply made for each other,” he pointed out; “both are butter-producing countries and, welded together, they will form one homogeneous and indissoluble pat. Peace will reign in Ireland from marge to marge.”
Mr. Devlin was less optimistic. The rule of Dublin Castle under Olaf Trygvesson was, he declared, not a whit better than the rule of Dublin Castle to-day. It was true that Turges the Dane was King of All Ireland in 815, but it was not until that chieftain had been very rightly and carefully killed by Melachlin that the Golden Age of Ireland began. He was doubtful whether Mr. Edmund de Valera would consent to be a toparch under Danish suzerainty. As for himself, he held by the Home Rule Bill of 1914 or, failing that, Brian Boru.
When we asked Sir Edward Carson how he viewed the prospect of becoming a Scandinavian jarl, he adopted a morose expression reminding us not a little of the “moody Dane.”
“If the Prime Minister’s proposal becomes law,” he said firmly, “I shall have no alternative but to hand over Ulster to Holland.”
We scooted slowly back to the office, forced to the conclusion that the Irish Question is not settled even yet.
GENIUS AT PLAY.
Shall I ever see again
In the human head a brain
Like the article that fills
That interior of Bill’s?
Never a day can pass but he
Makes some great discovery;
His inventions are so many
That you cannot think of any
Realm of science, wit or skill
That is not enriched by Bill.
To relieve the awful strain
Of possessing such a brain
William always used to play
Eighteen holes each Saturday.
But he scarce could see at all,
And he often lost his ball,
Plus his temper and his pelf,
So he made a ball himself,
Which, if it should chance to roam
Out of sight, played “Home, Sweet Home”
On a small euphonium he
Had inserted in its tummy.
Next he wrought with cunning hand
Round its waist an endless band,
An ingenious affair
Such as tanks delight to wear;
And, inside, a little motor
Started every time you smote or
Even when you topped your shot;
And, once started, it would not
Stop, for if it came within
Half a furlong of the pin,
Then it was designed to roll
Straight and true towards the hole.
This is scarcely strange, because
It was bound by Nature’s laws,
And a magnet was the force
(Hidden ’neath its skin, of course)
Which, thought he, would make it feel
Drawn towards a pin of steel.
When he practised first with it
William almost had a fit,
For the ball with sudden whim
Started madly chasing him!
“That’s a game that I’ll soon settle,”
William said; “my clubs are metal;
Spoons and other clubs of wood
Will be every bit as good.”
Then he found to his dismay
Every time he tried to play
That the ball with sundry hoots
Chased the hob-nails in his boots.
Finally he had to use
On his feet a pair of shoes
Of a most peculiar shape
Made of insulating tape.
So the final test arrives
When once more he tees and drives.
Joy! As soon as he has hit he
Sees it toddling down the pretty,
Never swerving left or right
Till it waddles out of sight,
Plodding through a bunker and
Braying like a German band.
Reader, possibly you’ll guess
That the ball was a success.
’Twas in fact a super-sphere,
But—I shed a scalding tear
On these verses as I write ’em—
He forgot just one small item
Which (as small things often will)
Simply put the lid on Bill:
For the hole proved far too small
To accommodate his ball.
Best Man. “’Ow much?”
Parson. “Well, the law allows me seven-and-sixpence.”
Best Man. “Then ’ere’s ’arf-a-crahn. That makes it up to ’arf-a-quid.”
“Wanted Situation by respectable middle-aged Girl; working housekeeper, can cook, bake; would not object to milk one cow (Protestant).”—Ulster Paper.
As distinct from a Papal Bull.
Singular Coincidence.
“Having successfully towed the disabled American steamer Tashmoo 1,200 miles, the Fort Stephens, a Cunard steamer, arrived at Queenstown on Saturday.”—Daily Paper.
“Having successfully towed the disabled American steamer Tashmos, with which she fell in last Monday, 200 miles, the Fort Stephen, a Cunard steamer, arrived at Queenstown on Saturday.”—Same paper, same day.
“The King has notified his intention to command the attendance of Lieutenants of Counties and the Lord Mayors and the Lost Provosts of Great Britain, at Buckingham Palace on the 15th instant.”—Glasgow Paper.
Mr. Punch hopes that this additional publicity will lead to the recovery of the missing magistrates.
THE AUTHOR-MANAGERS.
Literature is becoming so commercialised that it is to be expected that before long popular authors, who already surreptitiously practise the tradesman’s art, will go a step further and write their own advertisements. No longer will they be content to get themselves interviewed on the subject of their next book, their new car and their favourite poodle, or to depend on the oleaginous eulogies of the publishers.
For instance:
Mr. DOUGLAS DORMY
begs to announce that he is
his new Novel,
THE HIDDEN HAND OF HATE,
and confidently recommends it to
his Customers.
It contains no fewer than 92,563 of the
BEST WORDS
in the English Language
and is guaranteed
free from Split Infinitives.
Or again:—
Are you one of the
mentally alert men, the wistful women,
who have filled up an application form
to-day for
PATTERNS OF CHAPTER ONE
of
SEPTIMUS POSHER’S
New great romance of love and mystery
THE SICKENING THUD?
If you have not already done so, lose no time, but write asking for sample of
OPENING CHAPTER
(where the pink-eyed woman prevents the marriage of Ethel and Ludovic);
of
CHAPTER NINETY,
with its nine superb-quality murders;
or
CHAPTER TWO HUNDRED
(the last), where Ethel and Ludovic at last set out through the
FAIRYLAND OF LIFE.
You incur no risk in asking for these exquisite samples.
Write direct to Septimus Posher.
Or yet again:—
Mr. BOREAS BINKS
has pleasure in announcing that his new volumes of
RECOLLECTIONS
is now showing at all Libraries. He can confidently claim that this work, entitled
PEOPLE I HAVE MET AND
WHAT IS WRONG WITH THEM,
is absolutely the most refined volume of Scandal on the market. All the reminiscences are novel and tasty.
Or once more:—
KEATS WILLIAMS,
Poet and Critic.
Poems of every description completed
at the shortest notice.
Ask to see our choice spring lines.
Specimens Free.
Epics within Two Days.
Odes within a few Hours.
Sonnets, Rondeaux, Triolets, Quatrains
while you wait.
A well-known Judge writes: “I should very much like to give you a trial. I am sure you deserve it.”
DER TAG ONCE MORE.
[“One hundred Diplomatists’ Writing Tables, Cupboards, etc., for immediate delivery.—Office Furniture Manufacturers, —— and Co., ——, Berlin.”—The Times “Business Opportunities” column.]
Lightly loose the silken cable,
Swell, ye sails, by zephyrs kissed,
Bearing me the walnut table
Thumped by Bethmann-Hollweg’s fist;
Steering, not by course erratic,
Safe to the appointed wharf,
Bring, O bark, the diplomatic
Kneehole desk of Ludendorff.
Softly now, ye dockers, pardie,
Cease your wrangling for a bit,
Dump the seat whereon Bernhardi
Bowed his dreadful form to sit;
Make no scratch however tiny
When the circling crane-arm sags
On the chair that rendered shiny
Hindenburg’s enormous bags.
Blotting-papered, india-rubbered,
Good as new, with pencils piled,
Bring me the immortal cupboard
Where the Hymn of Hate was filed;
Who can say how oft, when brisker
Beat the heart behind his ribs,
Tirpitz wiped upon a whisker
Pensively these part-worn nibs?
Here are Kultur’s very presses,
Calendars that marked The Day,
Max von Baden’s ink-recesses,
Dernberg’s correspondence-tray;
Gone the imperial years, and cooler
Counsels on the Spree are planned,
Still one may acquire the ruler
Toyed with by a War Lord’s hand.
Waft them then, ye winds, let Fritz’s
Office furniture be mine;
Each one of these priceless bits is
Salvage from a Junker shrine;
Breathing still the ancient essence,
They shall give me, when I speak,
Something of the German presence
And the blazing German cheek.
Evoe.
MANNERS AND MODES.
OWING TO THE SHORTAGE AND PROHIBITIVE PRICE OF SILK STOCKINGS, THE LADIES MAYFAIR DECIDE TO DO WITHOUT THEM AND HAVE RECOURSE TO PAINT.
Mistress (to maid who has just served boarders’ breakfast). “What were they talking about, Jane?”
Jane. “You, Mum.”
MANUAL PLAY.
One point emerges very clearly from the murky chaos of the industrial situation to-day; and that is that the brain-worker will not for ever be content to be merely a brain-worker, thinking and thinking, hour after hour, day after day. He is beginning to realise his latent capacity for manual labour; and he demands as his right a larger opportunity for self-development, so that he too may escape from the drudgery of brain-work and rise at last to the higher, freer life of muscular exertion. There must already be many brain-workers who are well-fitted to take their place in the ranks of manual labour; and the cry goes up with increasing force that, given only that opportunity which is every man’s due, millions of their fellows are capable of lifting themselves to the same standard.
In my house the cry goes up with peculiar force about Easter-time, when I repaint as much of the house as I am allowed and whitewash the rest, and can appreciate what I am missing in my everyday calling. It is astonishing to think that one used actually to pay people money to paint and whitewash, and looked on with meek wonder, for six weeks, while they did it. Bourgeois I may be, but I have put aside that folly. The Easter holidays now are to me the best holidays of the year, because for four whole days I can do almost unlimited decorating. I begin with the conservatory; I do it a delicate pale blue, and it looks very lovely. The vine in the conservatory no longer yields her increase as she used to do, but I can’t help that. After the conservatory I start on the basement, and the opportunities in the basement are endless. It is a curious thing that brain-workers who do much decorating in their spare time do most of it in the basement and not in the rooms they have to occupy themselves. The basement is fair game. Another curious thing is that the people who do have to occupy the basement never seem to appreciate what you are doing for them. They appear to think you are merely amusing yourself.
The best day for doing the basement therefore is Easter Monday, when you can
When you have got rid of the staff (if any) you can get to work on the scullery and whitewash the ceiling. Whitewashing is much superior to painting. Painting looks lovely while you are doing it, but is very horrible when it is dry, being streaky or blistery or covered with long hairs. Whitewash looks horrible while you are doing it, but marvellous when it is dry, which is much more satisfactory. In a life of average prosperity and no small public distinction, including an intimacy with a professional tenor and two or three free lunches with noblemen, I can recall few moments of such genuine rapture as the one when you creep down to the basement to find the whitewash dry at last and brilliant as the driven snow.
The other thing about whitewashing is that it is done with a broom, not with a finicking brush and a small pot, but a good fat bucket and the housemaid’s soft-broom. In this way you can really get some bravura into your work. And, except perhaps for watering the garden with a hose, there is no quicker way of making a really good mess. Whitewashing by this method, I find that it takes much longer to remove the whitewash from the floors and other places where it is not intended to go than it does to put the whitewash on the places where it is intended to go; but the charwoman does the removing on Easter Tuesday, and I still think that that method is the best. Especially, perhaps, for outside walls, because in one’s artistic frenzy it is usual to cover most of the rose-trees with whitewash; they look then like those whitewashed orchards, and visitors think you are a scientific gardener, combating Plant Pests.
Personally I don’t pay too much attention to the rather arbitrary rules on painting laid down by the Painters’ Union. Life is too short. For instance, I don’t put my brushes in turpentine when I have finished for the day; and if I do I put the green brush and the light-blue brush and the black brush and the white brush in the same pot, and terrible things happen. I don’t like my art to be hampered by petty notions of economy, and if brushes persist in crystallising into tooth-brushes when left to themselves for an hour or two I simply use a new brush.
Nor do I insist on “cleaning thoroughly the surface before the paint is applied.” Anyone who sets out in practice to clean thoroughly the surface of the basement before applying the paint will find that the Easter holidays have slipped away long before any paint is applied at all. Besides, one of the main objects of paint is to hide the dirt, so why waste time in removing it?
On the other hand, I am not content with mere painting; I go in thoroughly for all the refinements like driers and varnishes and gold-size. Driers and gold-size are extremely necessary when painting the basement, because if there is one thing the staff enjoy more than tea-cups coming away in the ’and, it is really rubbing themselves against wet paint and wandering round muttering complaints about it. Without a driers or some drier or whatever it is, the basement remains wet for ever, and all work ceases while the staff amble about, ecstatically rubbing themselves against the doorposts and saying “T’tt, t’tt,” in a meaning way.
It is a sad quality of oil-paint that when it is dry it no longer looks so lovely and shiny as it looks when it is wet. It was found that the sense of disappointment which this produced was greater than the Painters’ Union could bear; so someone, in order to prevent industrial strife, invented some stuff called varnish, by which, at the very moment of disillusion, the maximum of shininess can be again produced with the minimum of effort. It is one of the few inventions which make a man grateful for the advance of science.
Well, that is all there is about painting. The only difficulty, once you have begun, is to know when to stop. Painting is a kind of fever. The painting of a single chair makes the whole room look dirty; so the whole room has to be painted. Then, of course, the outside of the windows has to be brought up to the same standard; and if once you have painted the outside of a window you are practically committed to painting the whole house.
The only thing that stops me painting is a turpentine crisis, which usually occurs just before church on Sunday morning, when one has three workmanlike coats of glossy enamel or pale-green on one’s hands. Week-end painters should keep a close eye on the situation, and cease work while there is yet sufficient turpentine to cope with the workmanlike coats; for I find that in these days the churchwardens look askance at you if you put in a penny with a pale-green hand.
The extraordinary thing is that this painting fever doesn’t seem to afflict professional painters; they know exactly when to stop. But then they don’t appreciate the luxury of their lot. They don’t realise that theirs is one of the few forms of labour in which a man has some tangible result (well, not tangible, perhaps) to show for his work at the end of the day. There is nothing more satisfactory than that. It is true, no doubt, that the professional painter would rather have a windy article like this to show; all I can say is I would rather have a bright-blue basement or a middle-green conservatory.
A.P.H.
Young Lady (making conversation). “How perfectly sweet! I’m sure I must have been there. I remember those glorious pines.”
Real Artist. “I call that ‘The Fertilising Influence of the Sun’s Rays on the Mind of a Poet lost in Thought.’”
Young Lady. “How perfectly sweet! No wonder he lost it, poor darling.“
THE EVE OF GREAT POSSIBILITIES.
In a Press sighing deeply over the various Labour crises there is the glad news that Mr. Clem Edwards, M.P. (barrister), of the National Democratic Party, has made a match with Mr. James Walton, M.P. (miner), of the Labour Party, to “hew, fill and train two tons of coal in the shortest time for fifty pounds a side.” The contest is to take place at Whitsuntide.
We hope that more Members of Parliament will follow suit, and challenge each other to feats of wholesome toil, to the great benefit of the nation.
In time no doubt the idea would take on with the masses and an immense amount of useful work would be performed disguised as sport. August Bank Holiday might become the great yearly fixture for a sort of Gentlemen v. Players bricklaying competition, and we may one day read of huge crowds being attracted to the East India Docks on Easter Monday to watch stockbrokers, flushed with their victory of Boxing Day, playing a return match with the dockers at unloading margarine. The movement might expand until even on Labour Day work would be in progress.
All this is, however, remote, but the solid fact remains
“POST OFFICE TREASURY BONDS.
It should be noted that, as regards the Post Office issue, dividends on registered bonds will not be deducted at the source.”—Daily Paper.
Nor, we understand, has the Chancellor of the Exchequer any present intention of confiscating the capital.
“America’s first Floating Bar-room. The City of Miami.—300,000 dols. has been spent in fitting up this vessel for thirsty American citizens. She will ply between Miami, Fla. and Havana, Cuba. A special bilge keel is being fitted to steady ship and passengers.”—Shipping Journal.
A very necessary precaution.