قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 156, Jan. 1, 1919
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 156, Jan. 1, 1919
modest protest to the Editor, to the effect that the use of "pica" should be reserved for the rarest occasions and not be allowed to prejudice the claims of those who were entitled to exercise the indefeasible privilege of "writing to The Times." (Cheers.)
"Scrutator," who followed, disclaimed any personal grievance. His letters had always appeared in large type and on the best pages. But he drew the line at "pica"; it looked too like an advertisement and destroyed the balance of the page. In old days an editor controlled the "make-up" of his paper. Now he was at the mercy of his "maker-up."
"Judex," speaking from the body of the hall, said that he had heard the interview in question spoken of as a "splendid scoop." He was not certain what the phrase meant, but he did not like the sound of it, and dreaded the prospect of President WILSON being made the subject of a typographical competition between our daily papers. While the paper shortage lasted this might lead to very serious results in the way of restricting the space available for the ventilation of the views of those present.
An "Anxious Parent" pointed out that the use of "pica" was unfortunate, as it irresistibly suggested "picador," one who participated in a cruel sport, whereas President WILSON was a most humane and compassionate man and had never assisted at a bull-fight.
After several other speeches it was ultimately resolved to form an association, to be known as the "Anti-Picador League," and a small committee was appointed to draw up an appeal to the principal Editors to abstain as far as possible from typographical Jumbomania.
BOY (SECOND CLASS).
BOY (Second Class) John Simpkins, a bad 'un, you must know,
Was told to swab a plank one day by a First-Class C.P.O.,
Whose eagle eye, returning, on the deck espied a stain—
"Boy Simpkins, fetch your mop, me lad, and swab yon plank again."
Boy Simpkins (Second Class, too!) made as though he wouldn't go,
And distinctly muttered "Blast you!" to that First-Class C.P.O.
The splendid Petty Officer fell flat upon the deck;
They bore him to the Sick Bay just a weak and worthless wreck;
But an A.B. who was standing by had caught the wicked word
And told the Duty Officer exactly what occurred:—
"Boy Simpkins (Second Class, too!), which I think yer oughter know, Sir,
'Ad the lip ter mutter 'Blast you!' ter the Fust-Class C.P.O., Sir."
There is silence in the foc's'le, on the quarter-deck dismay,
And the lower deck is humming in a most unusual way;
The working-party pauses as it cleans a six-inch gun,
And the Officer on Duty whispers hoarse to "Number One":—
"Boy Simpkins (Second Class, too!), I suppose you ought to know, Sir,
Had the cheek to mutter 'Blast you!' to a First-Class C.P.O., Sir."
Number One, his face is ashen and his knees knock as he runs
(A curious phenomenon quite rare in Number Ones);
But on he rushed until he saw the tall brass-hatted Bloke,
And, nervously saluting, incoherently he spoke:—
"Boy Simpkins (Second Class, too!), I'm afraid that you must know, Sir,
Had the nerve to mutter 'Blast you!' to a First-Class C.P.O., Sir."
The Bloke turned blue and shivered, then hysterically laughed,
And hurried, cackling shrilly, to the Owner's cabin aft;
There in that awful presence, with lips aghast and pale,
To the horror-haunted Owner he re-told the horrid tale:—
"Boy Simpkins (Second Class, too!), I regret to let you know, Sir,
Had the face to mutter 'Blast you!' to a First-Class C.P.O., Sir!"
You could almost hear the silence when the flags began to flap
And the Captain made the signal that destroyed the Admiral's nap;
And though I wasn't there myself beside the great man's bed
You all can guess as well as I just what the Owner said:—"SUBMITTED.
Boy Simpkins (Second Class, too!), it is thought you ought to know, Sir,
Has dared to mutter 'Blast you!' to a First-Class C.P.O., Sir!"
The Press Bureau won't let me mention how the Admiral went
And told Sir ERIC GEDDES, who informed the Government;
How the Cabinet, when summoned, found him far too bad to kill,
So packed him off to Weiringen to valet LITTLE WILL.
Boy Simpkins (Second Class, too!) down to history will go
As the first and last who dared say "Blast" to a First-Class C.P.O.
NOVEL RECONSTRUCTION.
Simmons is a writer of fiction and was a friend of mine.
I used to play billiards with Simmons, to talk to Simmons, but not to read Simmons.
There are limits to friendship.
I met him the other day in a very depressed state.
"Look at these munition workers," he said. "See what the Government is doing for them. Paying them wages all the time that they're out of work. What about me?"
"Well, you weren't on munitions."
"I have been on intellectual munitions," replied Simmons. "And now all my editors write to me, 'Get away from the War.' I have to transfer my machinery to peace work. I have to turn away from the production of the German spy. Think of it. I have almost lived on him for years. I have created hundreds of him during the War. All my laboriously acquired knowledge of German terms—like 'Schweinhund,' you know—goes for nothing. I shall have to make all my villains Bolsheviks. That will require close study of Russia. All my old Russian knowledge goes for nothing. They have abolished the knout and exile to Siberia. I have to start afresh.
"Then look at my heroes. I have mastered the second lieutenant. My typewriter almost automatically writes 'old top,' 'old soul,' 'old bean,' 'old egg.' All my study of this type is thrown away. And heroines—why, I shall have to study dress again. The hospital nurse is done for; the buxom proportions of the land-girl avail me no more. My dear fellow, it will be six months before I can deal with women's costume competently.
"And plots. How the War simplified everything. The Zep, a failure in fact, was a splendid success in fiction. The awkward people could be wiped out so simply. Then one's villains could die gallantly—a bit of good in the worst of men, you know—whispering a hurried confession in the ears of the Company Sergeant-Major in the front trenches.
"Then, again, all misunderstandings were explained when the V.C. looked up from his hospital bed. 'Eric,' she gushed, 'you here!' And from that moment he needed no more medicine. My dear fellow, we shall want new plots now; real plots and new characters. It will be a long time before I can return to my pre-war standard of strong, silent, masterful millionaires from the backwoods. Haven't I a right to seek compensation from the Government for checking my intellectual output?"
"I think the Government ought to pay you ten pounds for every week in which you don't write," I said.
Simmons shook me warmly by the hand.
The next day he cut me dead. I believe that Simmons, though an author of popular fiction, must have been thinking.
"THE FUTURE OF LYING.
"INTERNATIONAL CONFERENCE TO BE CALLED."
Northampton Dally Echo.
We should have thought it might quite safely be left to private enterprise.
"The American troops on this side are already either in the States or on their way."—Letter in "Daily Express."
The Germans will take this as convincing evidence of American duplicity.
