Punch, or the London Charivari | Page 5

Sir GILBERT PARKER'S _This Book for Sale_, in a purple bolero. Academic sobriety characterised the gown worn by the POET LAUREATE'S _The Sighs of Bridges_, while Mr. A.C. BENSON'S Round My College Dado was conspicuous in a Magdalene blouse with pale-blue sash."
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"This was followed by a banquet in which Bro. W.S. Williams took a prominent part."--Daily Chronicle (_Kingston, Jamaica_).
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LETTERS FROM MACEDONIA.
II.
MY DEAR JERRY,--No doubt you think from the light-hearted tone of my last letter that life here is a bed of roses. In reality we have our flies in the ointment--nay, our shirt-buttons in the soup. The chief of the flies is artillery, both our own and that of the people opposite; and the worst of the shirt-buttons is jam. It sounds strange, but it is true.
There was a time in the olden days when we welcomed gunner-officers, but those days are unhappily past since we met Major Jones. Learn then the perfidy of the Major and _ex uno disce, omnes_.
I had a nice little 'ouse up in the front line, well hidden by trees. It wasn't a _h_ouse, Jerry, I wish you to understand; it was merely a little 'ouse standing in its own grounds like, with a brace or so of chickens and a few mangel-wurzels a-climbin' round the place. You know what it's like.
Well, Major Jones, who had been my guest several times in this little 'ouse of mine, came round a few days ago with a worried look and an orderly.
"I want you to come and look at my telephone," he said hurriedly.
"What is it? Is anything wrong?" I asked sympathetically.
"I fear the worst. Something terrible may happen in five minutes," he replied darkly.
I gripped his hand silently, and he returned the pressure with emotion. In silence we walked the two hundred yards which lay between my place and his observation post, and I watched while his orderly got busy with the telephone.
"Is Number One gun ready?" demanded the Major.
It appeared that Number One was itching to be at it.
"Fire!" said the Major.
"Fire!" said the orderly.
A moment later there was a terrific explosion.
"Number One fired, Sir," observed the orderly.
"It is well you told us," I said sweetly, "otherwise I could never have believed it."
But the Major heeded me not. He was staring over my shoulder.
"Good shot, by Jove!" he yelled. "A perfect beauty! Holed out in one!"
I turned to see what had caused his sudden joy. But where was my little 'ouse? Had it suddenly turned into that nasty cloud of dust? Even as I looked my water-bucket reached the ground again.
"Awfully sorry, old man," said the Major, with a ghastly, pretence of sympathy. "You see it was in our way."
I brushed aside his proffered hand (rather good that, Jerry. Let's have it again. I say I brushed aside his proffered hand), and strode back dismally to what had once been my home from home.
Now I live in a little dug-out beneath the ground, chickenless and mangel-wurzelless, awaiting with resignation the day when the Sappers shall find that I am in their way and blow me up.
Another little game of the gunners is called "Artillery Duels."
In the good old days, when a man wanted a scrap with his neighbour, he put a double charge of powder into his blunderbuss, crammed in on top of it two horse-shoes, his latch-key, an old watch-chain, and a magnet, and then started on the trail. It was very effective, but of course some busy-body "improved" on it. Nowadays our gunners ring up the enemy's artillery.
"Hallo! Is that you, strafe you? What about an artillery duel, eh?"
"Oh, what fun!" says the enemy. "Do let's." And then they start.
"A hearty give-and-take, that's what I like," remarks a cheery gunner officer.
A moment later he rushes to the telephone.
"Is that you, enemy?" he asks. "I say, dash it all, old man, do be careful! That last one of yours was jolly near my favourite gun."
"By Jove, I'm awfully sorry, old thing," calls back the enemy. "What about shortening the fuses a bit, eh?"
"Good idea! Waken up the foot-sloggers too. They need it sometimes."
Then for fifteen minutes large shells rebound from the bowed head and shoulders of the unfortunate infantryman.
Which reminds me of George.
George had a strafe-proof waistcoat procured by him from a French manufacturer. He showed it to us proudly, and also the advertisement, which stated that the waistcoat would easily stop a rifle-bullet, whilst a "45" would simply bounce off it. It was beautiful but alarming to see his confidence as he stood up in a shower of shells, praying for a chance of showing off the virtues of his acquisition.
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We were very pleased to send to his hospital address to-day a postcard bearing the maker's explanation that a .45 revolver