Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 159, December 22, 1920
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 159.
DECEMBER 22ND, 1920.
CHARIVARIA. It is pointed out that the display of December meteors is
more than usually lavish. Send a postcard to your M.P. about it.
* * *
Mr. LLOYD GEORGE recently stated that the first prize he ever won
was for singing. It is only fair to say that this happened in the
pre-NORTHCLIFFE era.
* * *
An elderly Londoner recalls a Christmas when the cold was so intense
that in a Soho restaurant the ices froze.
* * *
There has arrived at the Zoo a bird akin to the partridge and
excellent for the table, but unable to fly. The very thing for the
estate of a sporting profiteer.
* * *
"What is the best fire preventative?" asks a weekly journal. The
answer is, the present price of coal.
* * *
The National Rat Campaign this year, we are told, was a great success.
On the other hand we gather that several rats have threatened to issue
a minority report.
* * *
"There is nothing so enjoyable," says a newspaper correspondent, "as
a trip across the water to Ireland." Except, of course, a trip back
again.
* * *
A number of Huns are receiving Iron Crosses through the post inscribed
"Your Fatherland does not forget you." How like Germany! She won't
even allow bygones to be bygones.
* * *
"Let Christmas come," says a contemporary headline. We have arranged
to do so.
* * *
A Minneapolis judge rules that a man has the right to declare himself
head of the household. Opinion in this country agrees that he has the
right but rarely the pluck.
* * *
"My faith in the League of Nations is not shaken," says Lord ROBERT
CECIL. This is the dogged spirit which is going to make this country
what it used to be.
* * *
"It may yet be possible," according to the Water Power Resources
Committee, "to harness the moon." This of course would depend upon
whether Sir ERIC GEDDES would let them have it or not.
* * *
Cinema stunt actors, says _The Manchester Guardian_, expect to be paid
fifty pounds for a motor smash. It seems an injustice that ordinary
pedestrians should have to take part in this sort of thing for
nothing.
* * *
The continued disappearance of notepaper from a well-known club has
now been traced to a large female cat, and most of the paper has
been recovered from her sleeping-basket. It is thought that she was
probably preparing to write her memoirs.
* * *
A burglar who broke into a private house near Hitchin helped himself
to a good supper before leaving. It is pleasing to learn, however,
that, judging by the disordered state in which the pantry was left,
the Stilton cheese must have put up a splendid fight.
* * *
It was most unfortunate that Mr. "FATTY" ARBUCKLE'S visit to London
should have clashed with the Cattle Show at the Royal Agricultural
Hall.
* * *
During a recent revue performance in London the conductor accidentally
turned over two pages of music at once and the orchestra suddenly
ceased playing. Several words of the chorus were actually heard by
those sitting in front before the mistake could be rectified.
* * *
Green peas in excellent condition, says a contemporary, have been
picked at Pentlow, Sussex. It serves them right.
* * *
"Although Labour extremists are now much quieter it would take very
little to set the ball of discontent into motion once again," states a
writer in the Sunday Press. This being so, is it not rather unwise to
let Christmas Day fall this year on the workmen's half holiday?
* * *
We question the wisdom of drawing the attention of Parliament to the
silence of the POET LAUREATE. If he is goaded into breaking it we
shall know whom to blame.
* * *
"If people at home only knew how grateful we are for _anything_ that
is sent us," writes a lady from the island of Tristan d'Acunha.
If they are as easily pleased as that, the idea of sending them
Lieut.-Commander KENWORTHY should not be lost sight of.
* * *
"The Hexathlon," we read, "is a form of contest new to this country."
Mind you get one for the children at Christmas.
* * *
A new type of American warship is expected to be able to cross the
Atlantic in a little over three days. It will be remembered that the
fastest of the 1914 lot took nearly three years.
* * *
Large numbers of Filipinos are resisting an edict requiring them to
wear trousers. Unfortunately it is impossible to offer to accommodate
them all in the ranks of the Chicago Scottish.
* * *
Riverside residents remarked that just before the cold set in large
flocks of seagulls passed up the Thames. Well, what did they expect?
Flamingoes?
* * *
Mr. A. B. WALKLEY has remarked that a prejudice against actors is as
old as the stage. It is satisfactory to think that it is no older and
that in many cases it may be removed by a change of profession.
* * *
"I never dreamed of anything like this when I invented the telephone,"
said Dr. BELL after a demonstration. Neither as a matter of fact did
we when we hired ours.
* * *
Owing to the fact that Dr. BELL has experienced no unpleasantness
during his stay over here, it is thought that the American genius who
invented revues may now risk a visit to our shores.
* * * * *
It is with the deepest sorrow that we record the death of F. H.
Townsend, which occurred, without any warning, on December 11th. Their
personal loss is keenly felt by his colleagues of the _Punch_ Table,
to whom the fresh candour of his nature and his brave gaiety of
spirit, not less than his technical skill and resourcefulness, were a
constant delight and will remain an inspiration. As Art Editor he will
be greatly missed by the many contributors who have been helped by his
kindly counsel and encouragement. Of the gap that he leaves in the
world of Art they are sadly conscious who followed and appreciated
his fine work not only in the pages of _Punch_ but in his
book-illustrations and in those appeals for charity to which he always
gave freely of his best.
To his nearest and dearest among the wide circle that loved him we ask
leave to offer the sympathy of friends who truly share their grief.
With them we mourn a life untimely closed, and great gifts lost to us
while still in their fulness; but we take comfort in the thought that
death touched him with swift and gentle hand, and that he died with
harness on, as a man would choose to die.
* * * * *
"THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT."
IN AFFECTIONATE MEMORY OF F. H. TOWNSEND.
Only a few days before the sudden tragedy which took from us our
colleague of the _Punch_ Staff, he made me a small request, very
characteristic of his kindly heart. It was that I should put in these
pages a notice of _The Christmas Spirit_, the illustrated annual
published in aid of the work of Talbot House ("Toc. H."), in which he
had taken a practical interest. In carrying out his wish I want not
only to plead in behalf of a good cause, but also to associate this
appeal with the memory of one with whom for over fourteen years I have
worked in close and happy comradeship.
In case any reader of _Punch_ has yet to be introduced to the idea
of Talbot House, let me explain that its purpose is to carry on in
peace-time the work that was done by the original "Toc. H.," which
from 1915 to 1918, under the management of the Rev. P. R. CLAYTON,
M.C., Garrison Chaplain, provided the comforts of a club and
rest-house at Poperinghe for soldiers passing to and fro in the
deadly Salient of Ypres. Its objects--I quote from _The Christmas
Spirit_--are:
"(1) To preserve among ex-Service men and to transmit to the
younger generation the traditions of Christian Fellowship and
Service manifested on Active Service.
(2) To offer opportunities for recreation and the making of
friendships to thousands of men who find life a difficult salient
to hold.
(3) To provide opportunities for men of all kinds to come together
in the Spirit of Service, to study, to discuss and, if possible,
to solve the problems of their time.
(4) To offer the help and happiness of club life at a low rate by
establishing clubs in many centres throughout the country as the
focus of the brotherhood."
The noble work done by Talbot House in Poperinghe and Ypres was
gratefully recognised by the scores of thousands of our troops whose
needs it served in those hard days, but it was only when the War was
over that its story was made known to the public at home in _Tales of
Talbot House_ (CHATTO AND WINDUS), which received a warm welcome in
the review columns of _Punch_. This was followed recently by _The
Pilgrim's Guide to the Ypres Salient_ (REIACH), a little book compiled
and written, as a labour of love, entirely by ex-Service men. Besides
being actually a present-day guide to the Salient, it contains special
articles illustrating the life that was there lived during the War by
various branches of the service. And now we have the annual of "Toc.
H."--_The Christmas Spirit_--to which the PRINCE OF WALES has given
a foreword and a host of brilliant authors and artists have freely
contributed. Here are RUDYARD KIPLING, STEPHEN GRAHAM, G. K.
CHESTERTON, E. F. BENSON, IAN HAY, GILBERT FRANKAU, W. ROTHENSTEIN,
"SPY," DERWENT WOOD, HEATH ROBINSON and, of _Punch_ artists, F. H.
TOWNSEND, LEWIS BAUMER, G. L. STAMPA, GEORGE MORROW, G. D. ARMOUR,
E. H. SHEPARD, "FOUGASSE," WALLIS MILLS and H. M. BATEMAN.
The four contributions of F. H. TOWNSEND include a "first study" for
a drawing that appeared recently in _Punch_ and a delightful sketch
of "The Christmas Spirit," as typified by a St. Bernard dog from whose
little keg of brandy a traveller, up to the neck in snow, is reviving
himself.
Out of the great scheme in whose aid this remarkable annual has been
published have already sprung two Talbot Houses, one in Queen's Gate
Gardens, and one in St. George's Square. There is still need of a main
headquarters in London and hostels for its branches, more than sixty
of them, spread all over the country. "'Toc. H.,'" says its Padre, "is
not a charity. Once opened our Hostel Clubs are self-supporting, as
our experience already proves. In Edinburgh, Liverpool, Manchester,
Bristol, Newcastle, Birmingham, Leeds, Sheffield, two thousand pounds
will open a house for which our branches in each of these places are
crying out. It is only the original outlay, the furniture and the
first quarter's rent, which stand between us and a whole series of
such houses in the great provincial centres. Fifty pounds will endow a
bedroom, where a lad can live cheaper than in the dingiest lodgings,
and know something better of a great city than that it is a place
where all evil is open to him and all good is behind closed doors....
'Toc. H.,' we repeat, is _not_ another recurrent charity. It is a wise
way of helping to meet our debt of honour; it is a living and growing
memorial, charged with the task of making reincarnate in the younger
world the qualities which saved us."
_Punch_ ventures to add his voice to this claim upon our honour and
gratitude; and, if I may, I would like to make appeal to all who
loved the work of our friend who is dead, that they should send some
offering to this good cause as a personal tribute to the memory of a
man who, in his own form of service, did so much to cheer the hearts
of our fighting men in the dark hours that are over.
Contributions should be addressed to the Rev. P. B. CLAYTON, M.C.,
Effingham House, Arundel Street, Strand, W.C.2.
O. S.
* * * * *
THE FAIRY TAILOR.
Sitting on the flower-bed beneath the hollyhocks
I spied the tiny tailor who makes the fairies' frocks;
There he sat a-stitching all the afternoon
And sang a little ditty to a quaint wee tune:
"Grey for the goblins, blue for the elves,
Brown for the little gnomes that live by themselves,
White for the pixies that dance upon the green,
But where shall I find me a robe for the Queen?"
All about the garden his little men he sent,
Up and down and in and out unceasingly they went;
Here they stole a blossom, there they pulled a leaf,
And bound them up with gossamer into a glowing sheaf.
Petals of the pansy for little velvet shoon,
Silk of the poppy for a dance beneath the moon,
Lawn of the jessamine, damask of the rose,
To make their pretty kirtles and airy furbelows.
Never roving pirates back from Southern seas
Brought a store of treasures home beautiful as these;
They heaped them all about him in a sweet gay pile,
But still he kept a-stitching and a-singing all the while:
"Grey for the goblins, blue for the elves,
Brown for the little gnomes that live by themselves,
White for the pixies that dance on the green,
But who shall make a royal gown to deck the Fairy Queen?"
R. F.
* * * * *
"Unless he wishes to raise a hornet's nest about his ears we would
advise him to let sleeping dogs lie."--_Local Paper_.
Personally we never keep a dog that harbours hornets.
* * * * *
From a concert-programme:--
"Fantastic Symphony ... Berlioz in a Vodka Shop ... Bax."
_Birmingham Paper_.
This should help to combat the current opinion that BERLIOZ is dry.
* * * * *
"Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson said there were, in certain places,
some forms of light entertainments which, to say the least, wanted
carefully watching."--_Daily Paper_.
At present, we gather, the wrong people do the watching.
* * * * *
[Illustration: SING A SONG OF DRACHMAS.
(_TINO AT ATHENS._)
THE KING WAS IN HIS COUNTING-HOUSE LOOKING FOR HIS MONEY.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Man of Wealth_ (_to his son just home for the
holidays_). "AND WHY DON'T YOU LIKE YOUR FUR COAT? I'LL BET NONE OF
THE OTHER BOYS 'AVE GOT ONE."
_Son._ "YES, BUT NONE OF THE OTHER BOYS HAVE TO BE CALLED 'SKUNKY.'"]
* * * * *
THOUGHTS IN A COLD SNAP.
It is going to be very cold when I get up, which will be almost
immediately--very cold indeed. It was zero yesterday; it may be below
the line to-day, twenty or thirty below the line--even more. A
little slam, perhaps, in spades. There are icicles hanging from the
window-frame; and it is a curious thing, when one comes to think of
it, what a lot of things there are that rhyme with icicle: tricycle,
bicycle, phthisical, psychical--no, I am wrong, not psychical ...
Anyhow, it is going to be very cold. Some people do not mind the cold.
There are people bathing in the Serpentine at this moment, I suppose,
and apparently nothing can be done about it. They ju-just break the
ice and ju-jump in. And yet it is not their ice; it is the KING'S.
It seems to me that it ought to be made illegal, this breaking of
the KING's ice, like the breaking of windows in Whitehall. These
ice-breakers seem to me as bad as the people who say, "It's going to
be a nice old-fashioned Christmas, with Yule-logs and things." Not
that I object to Yule-logs. I have some in my own Yule-shed, hand-sawn
by myself, though I am not a good hand-sawyer. When I get about
halfway through, the saw begins to gnash its teeth and groan at me.
It seems to me that what is wanted is a machine for turning the logs
round and round while one holds the saw steady. But there is something
beautiful in burning the Yule-logs of one's own fashioning that makes
one feel like the sculptor when at last the living beauty has burst
forth under his chisel from the shapeless stone. Besides, they are
cheaper than coal.
As I say, when people talk of "Yule-logs and things," it is not the
Yule-logs that I object to. It is the things. Nasty cold things like
clean shirts and collars and bedroom door-handles--there ought to be
hot water in bedroom door-handles--nasty cold things that make one say
"Ugh." I have a theory that the word "Ugh" was invented on some such
morning as this. Previously people had been contented with noises like
"Ouch" and "Ouf" and "Ur-r," though they realised how inadequate they
were. And then one day, one very cold 0/40 day, inspiration came
to the frenzied brain of a genius, and he wrote down that single
exquisite heart-cry and hurried it off to the printer. People knew
then that the supreme mating of sound and sense, which we have agreed
to call poetry, had once more been achieved.
But I have wandered a little from the Serpentine. Has it ever struck
you what people who bathe in the Serpentine on days like this are like
during the rest of the year?
Suppose it is a balmy spring morning, a mild temperate afternoon in
early summer, a soft autumn twilight when everyone else is happy and
content, what are they doing then? Positively bathed in perspiration,
groaning under the burden of the sun, mopping their shining foreheads
and putting cabbage-leaves under their hats. And then at last comes
the day they have longed for and looked forward to all through the
twelve-months' heat-wave, a beautiful day forty degrees below the
belt. They spring out of bed and fling wide the casement. That is
what they intend to do, at least. As a matter of fact, of course,
it is stuck, and they have to bash it out with a bolster, sending the
icicles clinking into the basement. "Delicious!" they say, leaning out
and breathing deep. Then they chip a piece of ice out of the water-jug
with a hammer, rub it on their faces and begin to shave.
They shave in their cotton pyjamas, with bare feet, humming a song.
Then they put on old flannels and a blazer, wrap a towel round their
neck, light a cigarette, pick up a mattock and stroll to Hyde Park.
When they get there they feloniously break the KING'S ice. Then they
"ugh." The mere thought of these people ughing with a great splash
into the Serpentine makes me feel ill. When I think of them afterwards
sitting lazily on the bank and letting the blizzard dry their hair,
basking in the snow for an hour or two and reading their morning
paper, and every now and then throwing a snowball or a piece of "ugh"
into the water, I hate them. Nobody ought to be allowed to bathe in
the Serpentine on days like this except the swans, who paddle all
night to hold the ice at bay. I wonder if I could get a swan and keep
it in the water-jug.
Half-past eight? Yes, I did hear, thank you. I am really going to get
up very soon now.
What I am going to do is to make one tiger-like leap--tiger-like leap,
I say--for the bathroom door and turn the hot-water tap full on until
the whole of the upper part of the house is filled with steam.
I am going to do it this very moment. I--yes--ugh.
Now I come to think of it a tiger-like leap would be quite the wrong
idea. I am glad I did not do it. Tigers are not cold when they leap.
"Tiger, tiger, burning bright." Tiger, tiger----
What did you say? A quarter to nine? What? And the water-pipes frozen?
_Are_ they?
Thankugh.
K.
* * * * *
"WIDOW KISSED BY BURGLAR.
ADVENTURE WITH A SOFT-VOICED GIANT.
The gurglar took nothing away with him." _Scots Paper._
"Gurglar" seems the _mot juste_.
* * * * *
"---- CLUB. Monthly medal competition. Returns:--
Gross. Hep. Nett.
F. Slicer 92 8 84
W. H. Putter 103 16 87"
_Provincial Paper_.
If only the Judicious HOOKER had been playing he might have downed
them both.
* * * * *
[Illustration: AT THE NATURAL HISTORY MUSEUM.
_Mother_ (_trying to calm her lachrymose offspring_). "'ERE,
ALBERT--LOOK AT THE PRETTY FISHES."]
* * * * *
NEW RHYMES FOR OLD CHILDREN.
THE PIG.
The way in which he eats and drinks
Is so extremely crude
That nearly everybody thinks
The pig enjoys his food.
But when I see how very fast,
Without one single chew,
He gobbles up his huge repast,
I'm sure it isn't true.
Far nobler than your Uncle Joe,
Who simply sits and sits,
Revolving, gluttonous and slow,
The more attractive bits;
Far nobler than your Uncle Dick,
Who likes the choicest food,
And, if he doesn't have the pick,
Is very, very rude;
The pig has not a word to say
To subtleties of taste;
He eats whatever comes his way
With admirable haste.
In fact, the pig may well resent
The insult to his line
When certain of the affluent
Are said to eat like swine.
A. P. H.
* * * * *
"None are much better than others, and some are much worse."--_New
Zealand Paper._
We fear the writer is a pessimist.
* * * * *
TAFFY THE FOX.
[Mr. HORATIO BOTTOMLEY has complained of the war-time efforts of the
POET LAUREATE, and desires the appointment of a national bard whose
mind is more attuned to the soul of the British nation. Recent
political events are not of course a very inspiring subject for
serious verse, but we have tried to do our feeble best here in faint
imitation of one of the manners of Mr. JOHN MASEFIELD.]
Safe and snug from the wind and rain
In a thick of gorse with a tranquil brain
The fox had slept, and his dreams were all
Of the wild Welsh hills and the country's call;
He slept all night in the Wan Tun Waste,
He woke at dawn and about he faced,
He flexed his ears and he flaired the breeze
And scratched with his foot some poor wee fleas;
He sat on his haunches, doubted, stood;
To his left were the lairs of his native wood,
The deep yew darkness of Cowall Itchen;
He flaired, I say, with his nostrils twitching
Till he smelt the sound of the Fleet Street stunt
And over the hillside came the Hunt.
* * * * *
Over the hillside, clop, clip, clep,
And the dappled beauties, Ginger and Pep,
Live Wire, Thruster, Fetch Him and Snatch Him,
They were coming to bite him and pinch him and scratch him,
Whimpering, nosing, scenting his crimes,
The Evening News and The Morning Times.
"Yooi! On to him! Yooi there!" Hounds were in;
He slunk like a ghost to the edge of the whin;
"Hark! Holloa! Hoick!" They were on his trail.
* * * * *
The huntsman, Alfred, rode The Mail,
A bright bay mount, his best of prancers,
Out of Forget-me-not by Answers.
A thick-set man was Alf, and hard;
He chewed a straw from the stable-yard;
He owned a chestnut, The Dispatch,
With one white sock and one white patch;
And had bred a mare called Comic Cuts;
He was a man with fearful guts.
So too was Rother, the first whip,
Nothing could give this man the pip;
He rode The Mirror, a raking horse,
A piebald full of points and force.
All that was best in English life,
All that appealed to man or wife,
Sweet peas or standard bread or sales
These two men loved. They hated Wales.
* * * * *
The fox burst out with a flair of cunning,
He ran like mad and he went on running;
He made his point for the Heroes' Pleasance,
By Hang Bill Copse, where he roused the pheasants.
They rose with a whirr and kuk, kuk, kukkered;
The fox ran on with a mask unpuckered
By Boshale Stump and Uttermost Penny,
Where the grass was short and the tracks were many.
He tried the clay and he tried the marl,
A workman's whippet began to snarl;
Into the Dodder a splash he went;
All that he cared was to change the scent,
And half of the pack from the line he shook
By paddling about in the Beaver Brook.
* * * * *
He swerved to the left at Maynard Keynes,
With an eye to sheep and an eye to drains;
By Old Cole Smiley and Clere St. Thomas,
Without any stops and without any commas;
At Addison's Cots he went so quick,
He startled a bricklayer laying a brick;
He ran over oats and he ran over barleys,
By Moss Cow Puddle and Rushen Parleys;
By Lympne Sassoon and Limpet Farm
He scattered the geese in wild alarm;
He ran with a pain growing under his pinny
Till he heard the sound of a war-horse whinny,
And tried for an earth in the Tory Holts.
* * * * *
The earth was stopped. It was barred with bolts.
* * * * *
He turned again and he passed Spen Valley,
By Paisley Shawls and Leamington Raleigh;
His flanks were wet, he was mire-beslobbered
By Hatfield Yew and by Hatfield Robert;
He tried a hen-coop, he tried a tub,
He tried the National Liberal Club--
A terrier barked and turned him out.