Read Ebook: Punch or the London Charivari Volume 152 March 28 1917 by Various

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Ebook has 211 lines and 17967 words, and 5 pages

The parish pump was probably out of order when this unparalleled conflagration occurred; but is seems to be at work again now.

TO MY GODSON.

I predict that in paths Montessorian Your infantile steps will be led, And with modes which are Phrygian and Dorian Your musical appetite fed; You'll be taught how to dance by a Russian, "Eurhythmics" you'll learn from a Swiss, How not to behave like a Prussian-- No teaching is needed for this!

Will you learn Esperanto at Eton? Or, if Eton by then is suppressed, Be sent to grow apples or wheat on A ranche in the ultimate West? Will you aim at a modern diploma In civics or commerce or stinks? Inhale the Wisconsin aroma Or think as the Humanist thinks?

Will you learn to play tennis from COVEY Or model your stroke on JAY GOULD? Will you play the piano like TOVEY Or by gramophone records be schooled? Will you golf, or will golfing be banished To answer the needs of the plough, And links from the landscape have vanished To pasture the sheep and the cow?

Your taste in the region of letters I only can dimly foresee, But guess that from metrical fetters The verse you'll affect must be free; And I shan't be surprised or astounded If your generation rebels Against adulation unbounded Of MASEFIELD and BENNETT and WELLS.

Upholding ancestral tradition Your uncle has booked you at Lord's, But I doubt if you'll sate your ambition Athletic on well-levelled swards; No, I rather opine that you'll follow The lead that we owe to the WRIGHTS, And soar like the eagle or swallow On far and adventurous flights.

But no matter--in joy and affliction, In seasons of failure or fame, I cherish the certain conviction You'll never dishonour your name; For the love of the mother that bore you, The life and the death of your sire Will shine as a lantern before you, To guide and exalt and inspire.

Life's Little Ironies.

Quiet, perhaps, but unusually protracted.

How it Happened.

From a publisher's advt.:--

"NEW NOVELS THE HISTORY OF AN ATTRACTION HE LOOKED IN MY WINDOW."

Collectors of coincidences will not fail to notice that what the papers call "The Great Allied Sweep" in France was contemporaneous with the arrival of General SMUTS in England.

CHILDREN'S TALES FOR GROWN-UPS.

THE HUNGER-STRIKE.

"Did you hear that?" cried the white hen.

"What?" asked all the other hens.

"He called us--cluck-cluck-cluck," said the white hen.

"Why shouldn't he?" asked all the other hens.

"I didn't mean he called us 'cluck-cluck-cluck,'" said the white hen hastily. "I was only choking with rage when I said that. He called us--cluck-cluck-cluck--"

"She's going to lay an egg," said the black hen with interest.

"Poultry!" screamed the white hen suddenly.

"Poultry?" gasped the other hens.

"Poultry!--he called us 'poultry'--oh, cluck-cluck-cluck--"

"Something must be done," said the yellow hen.

"Something must be done," repeated all the hens.

"We must have a hunger-strike till he apologises," said the thin hen importantly.

"But we shall be hungry," cried all the hens.

"That is the essence of a hunger-strike," said the thin hen.

Just then the keeper arrived with food for the fowls.

"We mustn't run to him," they said to one another. "It's a hunger-strike, you know."

Suddenly the fat hen began running to him.

"Come back; it's a hunger-strike, you know!" cried the hens.

"I have an idea," shouted the fat hen as she ran; "the more we eat the longer we shall hold out."

"So we shall," cried all the hens as they scurried after the fat one.

THE FAVORITE.

Some people would die rather than talk aloud in a 'bus; others would rather die than hold their peace there. This second kind is more fun, and four of it made part of my journey the other day from Victoria to Oxford Street much less tedious. They were all young women in the latest teens or the earliest twenties, and all were what is called well-to-do, and they were fluent talkers.

Years ago, when poor LEWIS WALLER was at the height of his fame, we used to hear of a real or fictitious "Waller Club," the members of which were young women who spent as much time as they could in visiting his theatre and rejoicing in the sight of his brave gestures and the sound of his vibrant voice. It was even said that they had a badge by which they could know each other; although on the face of it, judging by what sparse scraps of information concerning the nature of woman I have been able painfully to collect, I should say that segregation would be, in such a case as this, more to their taste.

Be that true or only invented, it is very clear that in spite of the War and its shattering way with so many ancient shibboleths the cult of the actor is still strong; for this is the kind of thing that lasted all the way from Hyde Park Corner to Vere Street:--

"Did you see him the other day in that ballet? Of course I knew he could dance, because he can do everything, but I never thought he was going to be so gloriously graceful as he was."

"But surely you ought to have known. Don't you remember him as the Prince at the LORD MAYOR'S Ball?"

"And what a wonderful figure he has!"

"I couldn't help wishing that he had only stained his legs instead of putting on red tights."

"My dear!!!"

"It's his grace that's the wonderful thing about him, I always think. His ease. He moves so--how shall I put it?--so, well, so easily and gracefully."

"Don't you love him when he stands with his hands in his pockets?"

"My dear, yes. But what a wonderful tailor he goes to. I always used to tell my brother to try and find out where his things were made and go to the same place."

"But of course it's the way clothes are worn much more than the clothes themselves. I mean, some men can never look well dressed, whereas others can look well in anything."

"But he does go to the best tailor, I'm sure."

"How many times have you seen this new piece?"

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