قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 153, December 12, 1917
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Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 153, December 12, 1917
"EXCUSE ME, BUT IS THERE AN AIR-RAID ON?"
"YES, I THINK SO."
"I'M MUCH OBLIGED. MY FRIEND'S UP FROM THE COUNTRY AND HE'S NEVER SEEN ONE."
A Light Repast.
"Under existing conditions, it is the duty of every citizen to confine his present consumption to an average of six matches a day, which with careful economy ought to suffice for all reasonable meals during the present emergency."—Daily Mail.
"At Leeds Assizes yesterday sentences were passed by Mr. Justice Boche ..."—Times.
Does not this almost amount to contempt of court?
From a speech by the Lord Mayor of DUBLIN:—
"That would he a crying evil, to leave the poor people in the city without milk. It would be a wise thing if the Corporation would take the bull by the horns and deal with the matter."—Dublin Evening Mail.
It might be still wiser to tackle the cow at the udder end.
THE INCORRUPTIBLES.
[Herr SCHÄFF, writing in the Tägliche Rundschau on the spiritual grandeur of Germany, declares that the degradation of her enemies will not prevent her doing honour to those dauntless men who in enemy and neutral countries have stood for truth and actualities. "The time will come when we shall mention their names and call them our friends. After the War we shall do homage to these men and to their incorruptible conduct. We shall erect monumental brasses in their honour. They are heroes, and their memories shall be consecrated."]
A literary spokesman of the Huns
Pays liberal homage to those "dauntless" sons
Of hostile nations, who have all along
Maintained their fellow-countrymen were wrong.
No guerdon for their courage is too great,
But, till the War is ended, they must wait;
Then shall Germania, with grateful soul,
Inscribe their names upon her golden roll;
And "monumental brasses" shall attest
The zeal wherewith they strove to foul their nest.
Such homage no one grudges them in lands
Where eulogy for deep damnation stands;
But in the Motherland they still infest
How shall we treat this matricidal pest?
No torture, not the worst their patrons use
On starving women or on shipwrecked crews,
No pain however bitter would requite
Their transcendental infamy aright.
Death in whatever form were all too mild
For those who at their country's anguish smiled.
Oblivion is by far the bitterest woe
England's professional revilers know,
Who joyously submit to be abhorred
But suffer grinding torments if ignored.
So let them live, renounced by their own sons,
And taste the amnesty that spares and shuns.
"Mrs. J.M. B—— (née Nurse ——), a son."—Scotsman.
Nurses, like poets, are born, not made.
THE PLAY'S THE THING.
Just outside Mrs. Ropes' drive gates there lies a famous and exclusive golf course, and when she turned her house into a Convalescent Home the secretary wrote offering the hospitality of the club to all officers who might come under her care.
Nevertheless, when Haynes and I first arrived, we were both too languid and feeble for any more exacting form of athletics than spillikins and jigsaws, and it was some time before the M.O. gave us