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March 10, 1915

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

187

ARS IMMORTALIS.

Betsey, when all the stalwarts left Us women to our tasks befitting,Your little fingers, far from deft, Coped for an arduous week with knitting;And, though the meekness of your hair, Drooped o'er the task, disarmed my strictures,The army gained when in despair You dropped its socks to paint it pictures.

I, knowing well your guileless brush, Urged that there wanted something subtlerTo put Meissonier to the blush And snatch the bays from Lady Butler;And so your skies retained their blue, Nor reddened with the wrath of nations,To prove at least one artist knew Her public and her limitations.

A dozen warriors far away Craved of your skill to keep them postedWith coloured pictures day by day, In aught of note their birthplace boasted;Hence these "Arriving Refugees" (Cheerful in burnt sienna) hurryTo soothe your uncle's hours of ease In some congested hut in Surrey.

I hear that Nurse's David gets (His valour is already French's)Your "Market" with the cigarettes His sister forwards to the trenches;This "Cat" (for Rupert in the East), Limned in its moments of inertia,You send that he may show the beast To its progenitors in Persia.

Daily your brush depicts a home Such as our duller pens are mute on;Squanders vermilion, lake and chrome And Prussian blue―that furious Teuton;Paper beneath your fingers calls For forms and figures to divide it,Colours and cock-eyed capitals And kisses cruciform to hide it;

Till, brushes sucked and laid apart, And candles lit and daylight dying,And you asleep, your works of art Ranged on the mantelpiece and drying―We elders (older when you're gone) Muse on our country's gains and losses...Ah, Betsey, is it you alone Who send your kisses shaped like crosses?

How to get your Literature for nothing.

"Read 'Poultry' and Make your Fowls Pay."―Poster.

"Oh! what are these?"

"Boots, Madam―for dogs in wet weather."

"What a sweet idea! And tell me―have you the puttees?"

THE ISLE OF WAS.

It is said that the inhabitants of the lonely island of Tristan da Cunha, in the South Atlantic, have not yet heard of the War. In view of a possible rush to the peaceful shores of this resort it may be well to print a few facts about the island from the pen of one who has never been there and, all being well, will never go.

This quaint little island is the only place in the world that does not possess a brass band or a bagpipe, and the simple folk living there believe khaki to be a vegetable popular in Bessarabia.

One of the present advantages of life in the island is that it enjoys complete immunity from blockade. If a German submarine were to approach its shores the residents of Tristan da Cunha would sally forth in their boats and proceed to cut it open to extract its blubber.

Local opinion of the Kaiser, based on the latest information to hand concerning him, is that he is a potentate of considerable energy, whose worldwide notoriety rests upon his activities in the studio and the pulpit.

Anyone visiting Tristan da Cunha should take his music with him. It is almost certain that "Sister Susie" and "It's a Long Way to Tipperary" will be all the rage there next Christmas.

The sportsmen of the island are eagerly awaiting the result of the great fight between Carpentier and Bombardier Wells, and bets on the result of last year's Derby are still being made.

The inhabitants of Tristan da Cunha are great gossips. "Have you heard the latest?" one native will ask another; "I got it from a man on the Caroline when she called here for water a year ago last August."

Visitors should not fail to see the Post Office. It is open on every ninety-third day, from 10 to 2.