You are here

قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 153, November 14, 1917

تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"

‏اللغة: English
Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 153, November 14, 1917

Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 153, November 14, 1917

تقييمك:
0
No votes yet
المؤلف:
دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
الصفحة رقم: 5

class="short"/>

"If a million quarter acres in the country were left uncultivated, the result would be that a quarter of a million acres would be left uncultivated."—Scotch Paper.

Examined and found correct.


Extract from a speech by Lord SELBORNE:—

"In that ouse Capital was very fully represented—he thought over-represented."—Daily Telegraph.

The printer seems to have thought so too, when he cut the capital out.


THE HIGHWAYMAN.


"TAXI! TAXI!"
"WHAT ABAHT IT?"
"I WANT TO GO TO HAMPSTEAD."
"DO YER?"

"I'LL DOUBLE YOUR LEGAL FARE."
"DOUBLE THAT AGIN AN' I'LL TAKE YER—'ALF-WAY."
"AN', MIND YER, I WOULDN'T 'AVE BROUGHT YER AS FAR AS THIS ONLY I 'APPENED TO 'AVE BIN COMIN' ANY'OW. I LIVE UP 'ERE."

Officer (returning to France in heavy sea). "I—HOPE—TO—HEAVENS—THE NEXT—WAR THEY HAVE—WILL—BE—IN ENGLAND."

NIGHTMARES.

I.

OF A FORM MASTER WHO DREAMS THAT HE HAS CALLED ON THE WAR CORRESPONDENT OF "THE DAILY MAIL" FOR A LITERAL TRANSLATION OF THE CÆSAR'S DE BELLO GALLICO.

"Omnis Gallia in tres partes divisa est." Is it fanciful to say of the three parts into which all Gaul is divided that by their colours may they be known, the blue, the brown and the ghastly, ghoulish, intolerable, bestial, but, thank God, passing, grey? Yes, thank God, the blight of greyness cannot last long; even now the scabrous plague is being burnt up and swept back and overwhelmed by the resistless flood, eager yet cautious, persistent yet fiery, of the blue and the brown. Hideous, pitiable, soul-searing are the scars that it leaves in its mephitic wake, but the cleansing tide of the brown and the blue sweeps on, and the healing wand of time waves over them, and soon the shell-holes and the waste places and the abominations of desolation are covered with little flowers—or would be if it were Spring.

The Spring! No one knows what depth of meaning lies in that little word for our brave fellows, what intensity of hopes and fears and well-nigh intolerable yearnings it awakens beneath the cheery insouciance of their exteriors; no one, that is, except me. They tell me about it as they pass back, privates and generals, war-hardened veterans and boys of nineteen with the youth in their eyes not yet drowned by the ever-increasing encroachments of the war-devil; all are alike in their cheerful determination to see this grim and bloody business of fighting to an honourable end, and alike, too, in that their souls turn frankly, as might children's, for refreshment and relief to the kindly breast and simple beauties of Mother Nature.

The key-note of their attitude is given in the sentence, spoken dreamily and as if in forgetfulness of my presence, by a Corporal of the R.G.A. as I cleaned his boots—it was an honour. "The blue—the blue—the blue—and the white!"

He was gazing skywards. I could see nothing but grey clouds, but I knew that his young eyes were keener than mine, that he had learnt to look into the inmost heart of things in that baptism of fire, that travail of freedom, where desolation blossoms and hell sprouts like a weed. Through the grey he could discern the triumph of the blue and the white of peace, when the work of the brown shall be done. It was an allegory. More he told me, too, in his simple country speech, so good to hear in a foreign land: of the daisies in the yard at home, of the dandelions on the lawn, of his pet pig: things too sacred to repeat here. And he told me that the great event on the Front now is the Autumn glory of the trees. Then he departed, and as he went he broke into deep-throated, Homeric laughter, and I—I understood: he was mocking Death. Even thus does laughter yap at the heels of that dishonoured king out here.


TO THE BOOD.

A SODDET.

[Our poet has caught a severe cold through having spent the night in the cellar.]

BOOD, whose autubdal spleddour, as of dood,

Shides od frob set of sud to dawdigg bord,

Gradt be this bood, o bood, to calb by bood

With agodisigg apprehedsiod tord,

Illube dot with thy beabs the biddight burk,

Whed through the gloob the Huddish biscreadts

Cobe sdeakigg, bedt od their idhubad work

Of bobbigg slubberigg dod-cobbatadts.

Or if thy labbedt gleabs thou bayst dot blidd,

Thed bay they aid our airbed add our guds;

Its bark bay every barkigg bissile fidd,

Bay dought be dode abiss, dor dode be duds.

So bayst thou baffle burderous WILLIAB'S plad,

Add all attebts of that bad badbad bad.



PRIVILEGED DISLOYALTY.

FIRST TRAITOR. "HOW ARE WE TO PUSH OUR PROPAGANDA PAST THE CENSOR?"

SECOND TRAITOR. "NOTHING EASIER. GET THE RIGHT KIND OF QUESTIONS ASKED IN PARLIAMENT; THERE'S NOBODY TO STOP THEM FROM BEING PUBLISHED."


ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

Monday, November 5th.—By way of celebrating Guy Fawkes Day the Government announced their intention of compensating, up to a limit of five hundred pounds, any householder whose property has been damaged in air-raids. How soon he will cage his "monkey" will depend upon the Treasury, which is morbidly anxious lest in its transactions bis dat qui cito dat should be literally illustrated.

"Forgetting the claims of Glasgow." MR. WATT.

The official price of potatoes is still unsettled. According to his own statement the FOOD CONTROLLER is only waiting for the decision of the War Cabinet. "On the contrary," said Mr. LAW, "the Cabinet is only waiting for Lord RHONDDA." It seems to be another case of the Earl of CHATHAM and Sir RICHAUD STRACHAN; and in the meantime the potatoes are rotting.

Provided that no scarcity of gas for other purposes is caused the Government see no objection to its use for the propulsion of motor-cars. On receiving this information Mr. PEMBERTON BILLING at once ordered a Zeppelin attachment to his famous torpedo-shaped car. No other

Pages