Punch, or the London Charivari | Page 7

of the now camp, surrounded by
confusion and an angry crowd of experts. There had been words and
more words; there had only just not been blows, and all with regard to
this wretched and incessant subject of April 7th. The C.C., never

broad-minded on the point, had become positively ridiculous and
tiresome about that irrevocable date, April 7th. It was a dull subject in
any case, said the experts, but in the circumstances it was inane and
cruel to go on insisting on it. R.E., Lorries, Signals and all their suites,
not having been on too friendly terms among themselves these latter
days, were fast becoming united in their intense loathing of the C.C.
and his everlasting and impossible April 7th.
At this moment the Highest Authority itself arrived on the scene to
have a look at it. He was not in the least discontented with what he saw;
he was inclined to congratulate the experts upon their expedition.
"We shall be hard put to it, Sir," said the C.C., "to be ready for
to-morrow."
"To-morrow?" said the Highest Authority. "Why to-morrow
particularly?"
"To-morrow is the 7th, Sir," said the C.C., with sinister emphasis.
"And what about it if it is?" asked the Highest Authority.
"We have to move in here on April 7th, Sir," said the C.C., with almost
an injured note in his voice.
"Have you?" said the Highest Authority. "Why?"
The experts saluted and moved off, commenting quietly among
themselves upon the good sense and magnanimity of the Highest
Authority. As for that Camp Commandant--
Yours ever, HENRY.
* * * * *
FOOD BEFORE CLOTHES.
"Exchange Fawn Costume, slight figure, good condition, for two
broody hens."--_The Smallholder._

* * * * *
THE HEROINE OF THE NEW NOVEL.
[Illustration: "BUT I CANNOT LINGER THUS WITH YOU, SIR
REGINALD," SAID THE RUSTIC BEAUTY; "I HAVE TO CLEAN
THE PIG-STY." SHE PAUSED, AND THEN ALMOST INAUDIBLY,
"YOU MAY HELP ME, IF YOU LIKE."
SIR REGINALD VAVASOUR'S HEART LEAPT WITHIN HIM.]
[Illustration: AT LAST HE HAD HIS CHANCE. "HOW MUCH IS IT
TO THE MARBLE ARCH?" HE ASKED.
"TUPPENCE," SHE REPLIED SOFTLY; AND THE SIMPLE WORD
RANG THROUGH EVERY FIBRE OF HIS BODY.]
[Illustration: DUSK WAS DESCENDING. HIS BACK TYRE WAS
PUNCTURED, AND HE WAS ALONE--LOST IN THE WILD
MOORLAND. SUDDENLY A CHEERY YOUNG VOICE SMOTE
UPON HIS EAR: "WHAT'S UP, OLD CHAP? CAN I BE ANY
USE?"]
[Illustration: "OH, I'M SO FEARFULLY SORRY!" SAID A SWEET
YOUNG VOICE IN DISTRESSED ACCENTS. AND THEN HE
BECAME AWARE OF A DAINTY LITTLE FOOT AND ANKLE
COYLY PROTRUDING FROM A BLUE TROUSER ALMOST AT A
LEVEL WITH HIS EYE.]
* * * * *
IN MEMORIAM.
FRANCIS COWLEY BURNAND,
1836--1917.
EDITOR OF "PUNCH," 1880--1906.

Hail and Farewell, dear Brother of the Pen, Maker of sunshine for the
minds of men, Lord of bright cheer and master of our hearts-- What
plaint is fit when such a friend departs? Not with mere ceremonial
words of woe Come we to mourn--you would not have it so; But with
our memories stored with joyous fun, Your constant largesse till your
life was done, With quips, that flashed through frequent twists and
bends, Caught from the common intercourse of friends; And gay
allusions gayer for the zest Of one who hurt no friend and spared no
jest. What arts were yours that taught you to indite What all men
thought, but only you could write! That wrung from gloom itself a
fleeting smile; Rippled with laughter but refrained from guile; Led you
to prick some bladder of conceit Or trip intrusive folly's blundering feet,
While wisdom at your call came down to earth, Unbent awhile and
gave a hand to mirth!
You too had pondered mid your jesting strife The deeper issues of our
mortal life; Guided to God by faith no doubt could dim You fought
your fight and left the rest to Him, Content to set your heart on things
above And rule your days by laughter and by love. Rest in our
memories! You are guarded there By those who knew you as you lived
and were. There mid our Happy Thoughts you take your stand, A
sun-girt shade, and light that shadow-land.
R.C.L.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Captain (_newly attached_). "ER--IS THERE
ANYTHING YOU'D LIKE ME TO GET ON TO, SIR?"
Major (_regimental economist_). "AH, YES! I WISH YOU'D JUST
LOOK AFTER THE BONES AND DRIPPING."]
* * * * *
CHILDREN'S TALES FOR GROWN-UPS.
VIII.

SOUR GRAPES.
"I have no doubt," said the fox, after a last futile attempt to reach them,
"that the grapes are sour;" and he went off slowly down the hill.
At the bottom of the hill a barrel was lying, and the philosopher was
filled with new hope. "The very thing," he said to himself.
He