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June 16, 1915

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

467

go on cleaning my rifle. And even if, having done justice to their sentiments, they next rose on their firing platform and put three rounds into me—well, I might certainly reply in kind, but I shouldn't be spiteful about it.

Let us turn from the contemplation of such dull and sordid humanity to the refreshing picture of the honest worth, if unsoldierly deportment, of my stable-boy turned sentry. Time and again I have ordered and besought him to say "Halt! Who goes there?—Advance one and be identified.—Pass, friend, all's well!" but always in vain. When the emergency arises he confines himself to what no doubt he regards as the point, and calls out shortly, "Who bist?" Only when I myself approach does he elaborate his challenge. "Who bist, Sir?" says he.

Yours ever, Henry.

Why not train our mascots to be useful as well as ornamental?

HIS ONE GRIEF.

I covet not the glory Of Pella's wondrous youth; My methods are as gory And more devoid of ruth; Still, later generations Applaud his imitations Of German close formations, Though cumbrous and uncouth.

I can assert sincerely I envy not the Hun, Old Attila, for clearly His exploits I've outdone; For though I am his debtor In spirit and in letter, I've never failed to better The triumphs which he won.

Nor am I ever jealous Of Cheops and his line, Whose temples seek to tell us That builders are divine; A heresy demoded, By common sense corroded, And utterly exploded By Krupp and Me and mine.

The Corsican dictator Had grandeur in his aim, But I should be a traitor To advertise his name; For he was only smitten Because we aided Britain—The blackest entry written In Prussia's book of fame.

One monarch and one only Humbles my lofty pride—Herod the grim and lonely, The great infanticide, Who, zealously fulfilling The function of child-killing, In this kind of blood-spilling All rivals hath defied.

For K. of K.

Some slight protection against hitting below the belt—the Garter.

"Sentence of three months' hard labour was passed yesterday at Bow-street on Ernest Taylor, clerk, no fixed abode, for obtaining money by fraud from Metropolitan policemen. He was arrested in the Strand by a Scottish policeman who had lent him sixpence. A detective said he was believed to have victimised 40 constables."—Daily Chronicle.

Constable (thoughtfully): "Bang went saxpence, but (with an effort) I'll no be sayin' it wasna worth it."