Read Ebook: Punch or the London Charivari Volume 156 May 14 1919 by Various

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SAFETY FIRST.

The fact being now established to the satisfaction of the authorities that the public is composed almost exclusively of drivelling idiots, a campaign has been instituted for adding to the decorations of London by placarding the walls with hints on how to avoid various violent deaths.

As this admirable propaganda is only in its infancy, I submit the following additions to its collection of horrors, which may perhaps inspire others even cleverer than myself to evolve new methods of protecting the public from themselves.

TUBES.

A picture of a widow wringing her hands with grief, and under it this pungent hint: "This is the widow of a man who tried to light his cigarette on the 'live rail.'"

A picture of a man who has been cut in half, with, say, a crisp little couplet:--

"Here are two portions of Benjamin Yates Who scorned the request to 'stand clear of the gates.'"

A photograph of the interior of a hospital ward full of patients, with the following: "Interior of a ward in the Bakerdilly Hospital, exclusively for patients who stepped off the moving staircase with the wrong foot."

TRAINS.

A picture of a stately building standing in its own grounds with the description: "The N.S.E. & W. Railway Orphanage for children whose parents crossed the line by the track instead of the footbridge."

A picture of a decapitated body with the poignant comment:--

"Be warned by the ending Of Ferdinand Goschen Who leaned out of window While the train was in motion."

And perhaps a few general hints such as:--

In stepping off an omnibus always alight feet first.

In crossing crowded thoroughfares, proceed through the traffic, not under it.

Before stepping from the pavement make quite sure that there is a road there, etc., etc.

Imagination, colour--that's all that's wanted, and if this propaganda is carried far enough the safety of the public will be assured, for either they really will try not to be killed while travelling or walking in the streets, or they will stay indoors altogether.

A DISCIPLINARIAN.

"SCHOOLMISTRESS'S RESIGNATION."

This high scoring was due, we understand, to the large number of losing hazards which had to be negotiated.

We are all in favour of popularising aviation, but we think this is over-doing it.

SPRING CLEANING

The hailstorm stopped; a watery sun came out, And late that night I clearly saw the moon; The lilac did not actually sprout, But looked as if it ought to do in June. I did not say, "My love, it is the Spring;" I rubbed my chilblains in a cheerful way And asked if there was some warm woollen thing My wife had bought me for the first of May; And, just to keep the ancient customs green, We said we 'd give the poor old house a clean.

Good Mr. Ware came down with all his men, And filled the house with lovely oily pails, And went away to lunch at half-past ten, And came again at tea-time with some nails, And laid a ladder on the daffodil, And opened all the windows they could see, And glowered fiercely from the window-sill On me and Mrs. Tompkinson at tea, And set large quantities of booby-traps And then went home--a little tired, perhaps.

They left their paint-pots strewn about the stair, And switched the lights off--but I knew the game; They took the geyser--none could tell me where; It was impossible to wash my frame. The painted windows would not shut again, But gaped for ever at the Eastern skies; The house was full of icicles and rain; The bedrooms smelled of turpentine and size; And if there be a more unpleasant smell I have no doubt that that was there as well.

My wife went out and left me all alone, While more men came and clamoured at the door To strip the house of everything I own, The curtains and the carpets from the floor, The kitchen range, the cushions and the stove, And ask me things that husbands never know, "Is this 'ere paint the proper shade of mauve?" Or "Where is it this lino has to go?" I slunk into the cellar with the cat, This being where the men had put my hat.

I cowered in the smoking-room, unmanned; The days dragged by and still the men were here. And then I said, "I too will take a hand," And borrowed lots of decorating gear. I painted the conservatory blue; I painted all the rabbit-hutches red; I painted chairs in every kind of hue, A summer-house, a table and a shed; And all of it was very much more fair Than any of the work of Mr. Ware.

But all his men were stung with sudden pique And worked as never a worker worked before; They decorated madly for a week And then the last one tottered from the door, And I was left, still working day and night, For I have found a way of keeping warm, And putting paint on everything in sight Is surely Art's most satisfying form; I know no joy so simple and so true As painting the conservatory blue.

A.P.H.

THE LAST OF HIS RACE.

IT is interesting, though ill-mannered, to watch other people at a railway bookstall and guess their choice of literature from their outward appearance.

Had you pursued this diversion, however, in the case of Mr. Harringay Jones as he stood before the bookstall at Paddington, you would, I fear, have been far out in your conjecture. For Mr. Jones, who had the indeterminate baldheadedness of the bank cashier and might have been anything from thirty-five to sixty, did not purchase a volume of essays or a political autobiography, but selected a flaming one-and-sixpenny narrative of spy hunts and secret service intrigue.

Still, how could you have guessed that Mr. Jones's placid countenance and rotund frame concealed an imagination that was almost boyish in its unsatisfied craving for adventure? Humdrum year had succeeded humdrum year, yet he had never despaired. Some day would come that great moment when the limelight of the world's wonder would centre on him, and he would hold the stage alone.

But till its arrival he consoled himself with literature and found vicarious enjoyment in the deeds of others. As long as his imagination could grow lean in its search for treasure amid Alaskan snows, he recked not if reality added an inch or two to his circumference. While he could solve, in fancy, problems that had baffled the acutest investigators, what matter if his tie-pin got mislaid?

And then came war to deposit romance and adventure upon our doorsteps. Mr. Jones was agog with excitement.

Espionage, treachery in high places, the hidden hand--Mr. Jones read about them all and shuddered with unholy joy. Perhaps he, an obscure cashier--who could tell? Stranger things had happened.

His literary choice dictated by such considerations, Mr. Jones picked his way delicately across the platforms till he reached his compartment, into the corner of which he stretched himself luxuriously and prepared to enjoy his book.

Just before the train started a lady entered carrying a baby and--greatly to Mr. Jones's annoyance--took the corner seat opposite him. Being a confirmed bachelor, he had a horror of all babies, but this child in particular struck him with disfavour; seldom, he thought, had he seen such a peevish discontented expression on any human face.

Close on the lady's heels followed a withered old man of the traditional professorial type, who seated himself at the other end of the compartment.

Mr. Jones buried himself in his book. For once, however, the narrative failed to entertain him. Beautiful spies lavished their witchery in vain; the sagacity of the hero left him cold.

Suddenly an atmosphere of unrest and agitation conveyed itself to him. The train was slowing down in the darkness; the lady opposite was leaning forward, her face pale, her whole attitude tense with excitement. The train stopped; outside someone was walking along the metals; there came the sound of a guttural remark.

The lady put her hand to her heart and, turning to the elderly gentleman, gasped, "Doctor, that was his voice. They have tracked us."

The old man rose quietly and, opening the far door, stood waiting.

"But the child?" she cried with a sob.

"He must be left behind, Madame. There is less danger thus."

"But what am I to do?" She turned to Mr. Jones, looked at him steadily and fixedly, and then, as if satisfied with what she read in him, exclaimed, "You have a good heart. You must keep him. Do not let them have him; too much depends upon it."

And before the astonished cashier had time to protest his fellow-travellers had gone and he was alone with the child.

But not for long. Just as the train commenced to move again three men entered the compartment; two appeared to be servants, but the third was a young man of distinguished appearance, the most conspicuous items of whose attire were a dark Homburg hat and a long cape of Continental cut.

Mr. Jones's heart missed a beat.

Throwing a searching glance around the compartment the stranger rapped out, "There has been a lady in here?"

"No," replied Mr. Jones, on general principles.

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