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162

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

March 3, 1915

MR. PUNCH'S SUPPLEMENT.

In the issue of this week Mr. Punch has the honour to offer to his readers a selection of his pictures illustrating the history of our Voluntary Army from its mid-Victorian origin to the present day. The harmless and friendly chaff in which he has permitted himself to indulge when recording the trials which this Army has so gallantly faced and overcome will not be misunderstood. The fine example which our Territorials have set, both at home and abroad, to the slacker and the shirker has been duly recorded in Mr. Punch's pages. For the rest—the lighter side of a serious loyalty—he has not much fear for a country which almost alone among nations can afford to laugh at its own foibles. And as the soldiers of our Voluntary Forces pass out to the Front it is in a spirit of high confidence and pride that he wishes them Godspeed and a great reward of their sacrifice; not forgetting those who, being past the age for foreign service, have volunteered to bear arms for the defence of our shores.

THE SORROWS OF THE SULTAN.

Borne on the breezes of the West-Sou'-West, What are these sounds one hears That break upon my post-meridian rest, And, falling on the ears Of my beloved ladies of the harem, Scare 'em?

I tell my people 'tis the conquering Huns That let off fires of joy; But I know better; they are British guns, Intended to destroy The peace I suck from my narcotic hubble- bubble.

How can I cope with these accursed giaours If once my forts give out? I miss the usual Concert of the Powers, I have no ships about, Save where the ten-knot Goeben, crocked with bruises, Cruises.

O how I loathe that vessel! How her name Stinks in my quivering nose, Since that infernal juncture when she came Flying before her foes, And in my haven dropped her beastly anchor (Blank her!).

Abdul! I would that I had shared your plight, Or Europe seen my heels, Before the hour when Allah bound me tight To William's chariot-wheels! Before, in fact, our two ways, mine and his, met. Kismet! O. S.

POULTRY AND THE WAR.

"What does this mean?" I asked, hastily withdrawing my spoon from the egg on my plate.

"It means," said Hilda, "that ours won't lay, and I had to go to the grocer's. I asked Mr. Thompson if it was new-laid, and he answered me that it was fresh in yesterday."

"What," said I, "does Mr. Thompson's electric bell do when you place your foot on the board immediately inside his door?"

"It rings."

"Quite so, and that is what Mr. Thompson does. His 'fresh in yesterday' is a purely automatic response to a certain stimulus. He has, in fact, never owned, nor is it possible for him to own, an egg that was not fresh in yesterday."

"I shall speak to him severely," said my wife.

"My dear," I answered, "years and years and years ago, before we were married, before this house was built, before you were promoted to pinafores and when Mr. Churchill and I were running about in sailor suits, people were speaking severely to Mr. Thompson; and they have been doing it ever since. No, there is only one way of getting the really reliable article. Our hens must lay. If they won't, we must make them. I will interview Christine."

Christine is our oldest hen. We have always looked to her to set the tone of our establishment, and her influence has on the whole been good.

"Somehow Christine seems to have changed lately," said my wife. "She has never been quite the same since her last brood of ducklings. You remember her trying to swim the pond, and our having to bring her round by artificial respiration?".

"You think that affected her?"

"Yes, it certainly shook her nerve. And I believe the War has been upsetting her lately."

"I suppose," I said thoughtfully, "that, if by any chance we were invaded, things would bo rather awkward for the hen community of the Eastern Counties. The only accommodation we could provide for them would be internal, so to speak."

"Exactly; that is what Christine feels."

After breakfast I strolled round to the hen-roost. Its occupants were scattered about outside, engaged in their daily exhaustive examination of the ground adjoining their domicile. It struck me, however, that they looked, if anything, a trifle more absent-minded than usual. Christine stood apart from the rest by the water pan. She eyed me gloomily as I approached.

My intention had been to be extremely blunt with her, to express my pained surprise that she and her companions were not playing the game, and to remind her forcibly that the motto of every patriotic British hen in the present crisis was "eggs as usual." But as I marked her dejected attitude I doubted if such a course would prove effective. Besides, it has always been repugnant to me to deal harshly with the softer sex. So I bothought me of a better way. Standing squarely in front of her I said, in a clear, distinct voice, "It is rumoured from a trustworthy source that the Kaiser is a prisoner at La Bassée." Then I turned and left her.

"Any news from the run?" I asked my wife on my return from Town. She smiled joyously. "There were ten eggs this afternoon." This was pretty good for six brace of hens. On the next evening there were eleven eggs, and on the next twelve. My wife was immensely pleased, but, after all, a household of four persons does not require a dozen eggs a day. There should be moderation in all things. It occurred to me, too, that such an excess of enthusiasm on the part of our friends, if allowed to continue unchecked, would probably overtax their energies. That night, before retiring to rest, I put my head inside the hen-roost and said, "The Russians have evacuated East Prussia. Official."

On the following day we had eight eggs.

Since that date, though the general trend of the war has been favourable, the Allies have suffered one or two minor reverses, and on one occasion there was a hint of trouble in Bulgaria. Still, on the whole, things are going satisfactorily. Our average in eggs has been 7.5 a day.