Punch, or the London Charivari | Page 2

the world will be uninhabited.
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A solicitor has been arrested in Ireland under the Defence of the Realm Act for refusing to give away the confidential correspondence of his client. The suggestion that a lawyer should be required to give away anything has aroused a storm of indignant protest in both branches of the profession.
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[Illustration: Lady (_who has been damaged by motor-car_). "I SEZ TO THE SHOVER, I SEZ, 'YOU MAY 'AVE AN ENGLISH NIME, BUT YOUR CONDUCK'S TOOTON.'"]
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"ARGENTINE MEAT SHIPMENTS.
The only shipment of mutton to the Continent during the week was 18,000 quarters of beef to France."--Sheffield Daily Telegraph.
Even the oxen in neutral countries are feeling a little sheepish.
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"A large section of the city will find its water supply rather intermittent in consequence of a burst of the Rivington water main at Twig-lane, Huyton, near Prescot. The main has an internal diameter of forty-four miles."--Liverpool Paper.
What an awful bore!
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"SEVENTEEN-YEAR LOCUSTS TO APPEAR NEXT SUMMER.
State Collee, Pa, Dec. 11.--The 17-yearg lgocgugsgt is due to appear agagingg gnext summer, according to C.H. Hadley, Jr., an entomo-legeggggbmn TTMMggggob rr . . j Eas logist at the Pennsylvania State College."--Erie Daily Times.
The news has had a decidedly discomposing effect already.
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"A gamble with death in the Strand--seeing that the stake is precisely the same--should be quite as enthralling as a hairbreadth 'scape on the plains of Texas, even though the gambler wears a top-hat instead of sheepskin trousers."--Manchester Guardian.
The writer understates the case. The substitution of a top-hat for trousers would add a piquancy of its own to the situation.
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FAITH AND DOUBT IN THE FATHERLAND.
News of triumph, very cheering, Fills our marrows full of sap, News of FALKENHAYN careering Right across Roumania's map, Tales of corn to swell our tummies, tales of golden oil to tap.
Everywhere we go victorious Over earth and on the blue; More and more superbly glorious Ring the deeds we dare and do, Till they sound almost too splendid to be absolutely true.
Here and there, indeed, a sceptic Mutters language rather rude; Here and there a wan dyspeptic, Yielding to a peevish mood, Wonders why a winning nation finds itself so short of food.
When carillons rock the steeple And the bunting's ordered out, I have noticed several people Ask themselves in honest doubt Why the War-Lord's lifted finger fails to bring a peace about.
Yet, though England, crushed and quailing, Kicks his dove-bird down the stair, I shall trust, with faith unfailing, In my KAISER'S conquering air (Still I blame no man for thinking there must be a catch somewhere).
O.S.
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RECOGNITION.
"Francesca," I said, "have you seen it?"
"It? What?"
"The announcement."
"What announcement?"
"I have been gazetted," I said.
"Did it hurt much?" she said. "Or were you able to bear it without a murmur?"
"It's in _The Times_," I said, "and you shall read it, whether you like it or not. It's in the place where I'm pointing my finger. There--do you see it?"
"If you'd only take your finger away I might be able to. Thanks. My hat! isn't it exciting? 'To be 2nd Lieutenant (tempy.) 1st Battalion, Blankshire Regiment of Volunteers--' So it's come at last, has it?"
"Yes," I said, "it's come at last. They've recognised us."
"Well," she said, "it was about time, wasn't it? Here you've all been form-fouring and two deeping and route-marching for two years or so, and looking highly military in your grey-green uniforms, while the authorities stood by and persuaded themselves you didn't exist; and at last somebody comes along--"
"It was Lord FRENCH who came along--"
"Yes," she said, "Lord FRENCH comes along on a fine cold Sunday morning and says to himself, 'Here are several hundred thousand men who are panting to make themselves useful. Let's recognise them," and from that moment you actually begin to exist. And then they bring down your grey hairs with sorrow into the Gazette, and, instead of being a Platoon Commander, you become a 2nd Lieutenant."
"'Tempy,'" I said; "don't forget the 'tempy.'"
"I won't," she said. "What does it mean? It sounds very irritable."
"It does," I said; "but as a matter of fact it's got nothing to do with my temper. It means temporary."
"Anyhow it's a difficult word to pronounce in four syllables. I shall do it in two."
"No, Francesca, you shall not. As the holder of His Majesty's Commission I cannot allow you to go about the country saying tempy when you mean tem-po-ra-ry."
"But why do they put in the word at all?"
"It's the War Office way of announcing that we're not to expect our new-born joys to last for ever."
"To the end of the War is long enough for most people at the present rate."
"Do not let us peer too anxiously into the dim and distant future.