Punch, or the London Charivari | Page 3

Sent home a powerful article which, when it is reproduced in all the French papers, as it will be, should encourage him and improve his position.
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Dined at Lady RIDLEY'S. A very cheery party and much chaff. Mrs. ASQUITH said that she was writing her reminiscences. I made no mention of my diary, but if I don't get it out in book form before hers I'm not the Colonel of the Nuts.
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To-day's article should bring things to a head very shortly. Shall be very glad when it is over and I can rest a little. Took some bicarbonate of soda.
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Armistice signed. Spent the day in a kind of triumphal procession from restaurant to restaurant, at each of which I was hailed with applause.
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Reached Versailles and let the news be known. A visible quickening up already to be noted.
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Sent for President WILSON, but something must have prevented his coming. Lunched at Paillard's and dined at Larue's. Saw an amusing Palais Royal farce.
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June 28th, 1920.--Treaty of Peace, for which I have worked so long, signed at last. Now I can utter my Nunc Dimittis, having accomplished the two ends I had in view--to bring the first world War to a more or less satisfactory finish and to make it dangerous for any but the deaf and dumb to dine out.
E. V. L.
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THE LATE WORM
(Being a correction of "A Ballad of the Early Worm," "Punch," October 6th).
OH ye whose hearts were rent with pain A few short weeks ago, Is it unkind to harp again Upon that tale of woe?
You know the tale--in Punch, I mean-- Pathetic every word; Three wormlets fought to stand between Pa and the Early Bird.
You sorrowed for their non-success (By use of triple strength They saved their father's life--ah yes-- But not his total length).
You thought, of course--I know you did-- That Father left his hole, A briskly virtuous annelid, To take an early stroll.
Well, now just go and read a book Called Vegetable Mould And Earthworms (DARWIN); if you look You'll find that you've been sold.
It's not my own, it's DARWIN'S firm Authority I cite: There never is an early worm; Pa had been out all night.
He swaggered forth at eventide And stayed till dawn next day; For I will not attempt to hide That worms behave that way.
So pious folk like you and me Should not be filled with woe At thought of Father's tragedy; His morals were so low.
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Our Courtly Contemporaries.
"The Earl of Athlone walked away on foot, as is the simple way of our Royal Family." Sunday Paper.
* * * * * "High-backed chair of Tudor period, about 1660."--Advt. in Daily Paper.
We don't question its genuineness, but infer that it has been subjected to Restoration.
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"Furnished House, consisting of dining, drawing, eight breakfast rooms, etc." Sunday Paper.
Would suit a large family inclined to be short-tempered in the morning.
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[Illustration: A TOO-FREE COUNTRY.
ALIEN RIOTER. "DOWN WITH EVERYBODY!"
P.C. JOHN BULL. "WELL, WE'LL MAKE A START WITH YOU."]
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[Illustration: PEOPLE WE ADMIRE.
THE HERO WHO KEEPS UP HIS ARMY EXERCISES, STRIKE OR NO STRIKE.]
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A LETTER TO THE BACK-BLOCKS.
DEAR GINGER,--So you have bought a very promising little gold-mine from a rollicking Irish nobleman called Patrick Terence O'Ryan, who is retiring on Mayo to take up the paternal estates. H-m!--have you? And you think you yourself will be retiring home presently on the proceeds of the said mine? H-m! again. There is a certain familiarity in your description of the gentleman. Tell me, has this Hibernian philanthropist a slight squint, a broken nose and a tendency to lisp in moments of excitement?
I think I see you nod.
Ginger, I once bought a mine from that man. His name was Algernon Maddox Cholmondely then, and he was homeward bound to assume the ancestral acres in Flint. He escorted me down the hole and displayed visible gold sparkling all along the reef. A week after he had gone I found that he had put it there with a shot-gun--an old "salter's" trick, but new to me at the time. You are not likely to be seeing Patrick Algernon Terence Maddox O'Ryan-Cholmondely again, but, if you should, remember me to him, please--with the business end of a pick-axe. Always delighted to keep in touch with old friends.
Ginger, you never can tell. This is not an original remark. One of our brainy boys--George Bernard, unless I err--thought of it before I did; went away into the wilderness, wrapped his grey-matter in wet Jaeger bandages, subsisted on a diet of premasticated grape-nuts and produced this aphorism. And there's a world of truth in it, my son. You certainly never can.
One fine morning last August