“Man,” said Gawge, “yo’ all kin be a nootrality if yo’ wants to. Ah’m a German!”

TOMMY ATKINS EXPLAINS WHY “IT’S A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY”

Scene: A street in a French town. Enter Thomas Atkins, singing; he meets Jean Pioupiou.

T. A.—“‘It’s a long, long way to Tipperary, it’s—’ Halloa, cocky—how goes it?” (Holds out his hand, genially.)

J. P.—“Ah, mon cher ami! ‘For eeze a zholi good fellow,’ nest-ce-pas?” (Attempts to embrace his new friend.)

T. A.—“Whoa, mare—steady on! You make me blush, old sport—it’s not the thing where we come from. Kiss the girls—not half! But the men—not in these!”

J. P.—“You come from Teeperary—a long, long way, peut-être?”

T. A.—“Me? Never was there in the whole course of my natural, cher ami, see voo play, mong cher frère. What price my parley-vooing, eh?”

J. P.—“Charmant—charmant! Vous parlerez bientôt—”

T. A.—“Cut it, old dear; I like you—you’re hot stuff; but your queer langwidge is a bit too thick. Have a fag? No offense.”

J. P.—“Merci bien, m’sieu. Mais dites-moi—tiens! Tell me, eef you please, where is zis Teeperary, and why you sing always of it such a ’long, long way?’ Ees it that you all come from there?”

T. A.-“Well, I never met anybody yet who’d been there, but I’ll tell you one thing—promise you won’t let on?”

J. P.—“‘Let on?’ Pardon—I do not—”

T. A.—“You won’t tell anyone?”

J. P.—“Ah, non, non—pas un mot!”

T. A.—(Whispers hoarsely) “It’s in Ireland.”

J. P. (Ecstatically) “Ah—Teeperary ees in Ireland! Eet is the Hymne National of les Irlandais sans doute; the—what do you say—the National Anthem of that country!”

T. A.—(Rather taken aback) “Well, not exactly a hymn, my son. You’re a long way off it yet.”

J. P.—“‘A long, long way’ off eet, hein? But why so very far to this place you sing of? And why do you celebrate it so loudly on your marching?”

T. A.—(Puzzled) “Blowed if I know. It’s a long way because—you see, you’d have to cross the Channel; then first on the left and straight on till you board the Irish packet; then—ask a policeman. See?”

J. P.—(Sadly) “Ah, oui, oui. Je ne comprends pas—mille regrets.”

T. A.—“You no comprenny, eh? Same here—left my geography home on the piano, else I’d put it clearer.” (An idea comes to him.) “You see, it’s like this: we take Tipperary as kind of representative—oh, very hot. Now I’m oratin’. Twig?”

J. P.—“Pardon?”

T. A.—(Very earnestly, explaining to himself as well as his friend) “Means lots of things, Tipperary—home, the girl, a square feed, plenty of ’baccy, and the old pals, you know; all signified by the word ‘Tipperary.’ Understand? We pack it up tight for convenience in transport, and when we sing it, it all comes out—the jolly things we’ve left behind. Got it?”

J. P.—(Smiling happily) “Ah, bien entendu—you ‘pack it’—ze Irish packet of which you have spoke, is it not?”

T. A.—(Groaning softly) “Oh, Lord! Cheese it, Frenchie—you make me perspire. What I mean is, when we sing ‘Tipperary’ it reminds us of all these things. And we like it. Makes us feel nice all over.”

J. P.—(Joyously) “Voilà—comme c’est bon—c’est symbolique, un coup de l’imagination, n’est-ce-pas?”

T. A.—(Catching the word) “That’s it—you’ve struck it; it sets our imagina-see-on to work. Also it’s a special swanky tune for marching to; makes you forget your poor feet. Like the tune, eh? Savvy? Tipperary—you ’preciate the air—le music, tray bong, nace-pah?”

J. P. (Beaming) “La musique—la mélodie—ah, oui, mais c’est—how do you say him?” (triumphantly): “Luv-lee!”

T. A.—(Enthusiastically) “Oh, good! Bong garsong! You cottoned on beautifully that time, anyhow.”

J. P.—“Comment?”

T. A.-“Come on? Where? Oh, I see—one of your words. Well?”

J. P.—“But, tell me, eet is how long—how far—to Teeperary?”

T. A.—(Desperately) “Now look here, old dear; I’ve had enough of this. You take it from me there’s some things you bally well can’t get the hang of, and this is one of ’em. Never mind; donny-moi one of those funny little black fags of yours and we’ll toddle to a caffy and drink to William the Conqueror—I don’t think. Come on!”

J. P.—“Comment?”

T. A.—“That’s what I said.” (Takes his arm and sings): “‘It’s a long—’”

J. P. (Joining in with huge glee as they go off) “‘—long way to Teeperary, eet’s a long, long way to go-o-o—’” (Exeunt.)

PLENTY TO CHOOSE FROM

Will Irwin, the war correspondent, supped in London recently with Lincoln Springfield, editor.

“Lord Kitchener,” said Mr. Irwin, “told a young lady some years since that, if he ever married, his choice would be a German widow.”

“Well, he’s making plenty of them now,” chuckled Mr. Springfield.

WINNING A BET

One of the best stories told about Sir John French is how, one night at dinner, some officers were discussing rifle-shooting. The general was listening, as was his wont, without making any remark, until at length he chipped in with:

“Say, I’ll bet anyone here,” in his calm, quiet, deliberate way, “that I can fire ten shots at 500 yards and call each shot correctly without waiting for the marker. I’ll stake a box of cigars on it.”

The major present accepted the offer, and the next morning the whole mess was at the shooting range to see the trial.

Sir John fired. “Miss!” he announced. He fired again. “Miss!” he repeated. A third shot. “Miss!”

“Hold on there!” protested the major. “What are you doing? You are not shooting at the target at all.”

But French finished his task. “Miss!” “Miss!” “Miss!”

“Of course I wasn’t shooting at the target,” he said. “I was shooting for those cigars.”

COCKNEY GERMAN

He was a shining light of the Intelligence Corps, and before he arrived at Swakopmund his abilities as a linguist were spoken of with bated breath. To him there came his captain.

“Glad you’ve come, Jones,” said he; “we need a man who speaks German. Take a file and go down and tell that officer we made a prisoner yesterday that I’ll give him parole, but if he attempts to escape he’ll be shot.”

Off marched Jones, full of the importance of his task.

“Sprechen sie Deutsch?” he asked the chap, to the great admiration of the onlookers.

“Ja, ja,” said the big German, eagerly, glad to find some one who understood him at last.

“Oh! yer do—do yer?” said Jones. “Well, old sauerkraut, the captain says as ’ow ’e’ll give yer parole, but if you blooming well tries to skip it, there’s a bullet for yer! See?”

IT PAYS TO ADVERTISE

When the opposing lines of trenches are near enough together, bombs of all kinds are being used by both belligerents. Some of these bombs are made out of old jam tins; and it is related how, when one Pure Plum and Apple, bearing the maker’s name, had succeeded in reaching its destination,