PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 150.

FEBRUARY 9, 1916.

Tommy. "'Ere, Ted, what's the matter?"
Ted (ex-plumber). "Wy, I'm goin' back for me baynet, o' course."

CHARIVARIA.

The German claim that as the result of the Zeppelin raid "England's industry to a considerable extent is in ruins" is probably based on the fact that three breweries were bombed. To the Teuton mind such a catastrophe might well seem overwhelming.

A possible explanation of the Government's action in closing the Museums is furnished by the Cologne Gazette, which observes that "if one wanted to find droves of Germans in London one had only to go to the museums." But if the Government is closing them merely for purposes of disinfection it might let us know.

Irritated by the pro-German conversation of one of the guests at an American dinner-party the English butler poured the gravy over him. The story is believed to have greatly annoyed the starving millionaires in Berlin. They complain that their exiled fellow-countrymen get all the luck.

Is the Office of Works feeding Germany? We have lately learned that no bulbs are to be planted in the London parks this season; and almost simultaneously we read in the Frankfurter Zeitung a suggestion that, as bulbs are so cheap owing to the falling-off in the English demand, they should be used as food by the German housewife. What has Mr. Harcourt to say about this?

Mr. Ted Heaton, a noted Liverpool swimmer, is acting as sergeant-instructor to the Royal Fusiliers at Dover, and is expected to have them in a short time quite ready for the trenches.

A London magistrate has ruled that poker is a game of chance. He was evidently unacquainted with the leading case in America, where, on the same point arising, the judge, the counsel and the parties adjourned for a quiet game, and the defendant triumphantly demonstrated that it was a game of skill.

In an article describing the wonders of modern French surgery Mrs. W.K. Vanderbilt mentioned that she had watched an operation in which a part of a man's rib was taken out and used as a jawbone. "Pooh!" said the much-married general practitioner who read it, "that's as old as Adam."

A man who applied recently to be enlisted in the Royal Flying Corps as a carpenter was medically rejected because he had a hammer toe. If he had lost a nail we could have understood it.

The following letter has been received by the matron of an Indian hospital:—

A correspondent, anxious about etiquette, writes:—"Sir,—The other day I offered my seat to the lady-conductor of a tramcar. Did I right?—Yours truly, Noblesse Oblige."

It is stated that one of the principal items of discussion during the new Session of the Prussian Diet will be a Supplementary War Bill. Some of the members are expected to protest, on the ground that the present War is quite sufficient, thank you.

INTELLECTUAL RETRENCHMENT.

[The annual expenses that will be saved by the closing of the London Museums and Galleries amount to about one-fifth of the public money spent on the salaries of Members of Parliament.]

DIPLOMACY.

"Tell us," said Phyllis laboriously, "about diploma——" and there it stuck.

"Tistics," added Lillah in a superior manner.

Being an uncle, I can never give my brain a rest. It is the easiest thing in the world to be found out by a child of seven.

"You mean," I said, "diplomatists?"

"Yes," said Phyllis in a monotone. "Daddy said they-weren't-any earthly-blast-them and——"

"Yes, yes!" I said hastily. I can imagine what George said about diplomatists. He held a good deal of Balkan stock.

"Well, are they?" asked Lillah innocently.

"Diplomatists," I said, "are people in spats and creased trousers, and the truth is not in them."

"What is spats?" asked Phyllis.

"Spats," I answered, "are what people wear when they want to get a job and their boots are shabby."

"Are diplomatists shabby?" queried Lillah.

"Not a bit," I answered rather bitterly.

"Do they want jobs?"

"They want to keep them," I said.

"So they have spats," said Phyllis, completely satisfied.

"Exactly," I said. "Then they go into an extremely grand room together and talk."

"What about?" said Lillah.

"Oh, anything that turns up," I answered—"the rise in prices or the late thaw; or if everything fails they simply make personal remarks."

"Like clergymen," said Phyllis vaguely.

"Exactly," I said. "And all round the building are secret police disguised as reporters, and reporters disguised as