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Read Ebook: Punch or the London Charivari Volume 156 Jan. 8 1919 by Various
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Ebook has 223 lines and 15929 words, and 5 pages
"Of course you can't; nobody could. Rough copies are divided into classes as follows:--
"No. 1. Those I can read, but nobody else can.
"No. 2. Those I can't read myself after two days.
"No. 3. Those my typist can read.
"This story is about a certain Brigade Major who is an inveterate leg-puller. Some Americans are expected to be coming for instruction. Well, before they arrive the Brigade Major has to go up to the line, and on his way he meets a man with a very new tin hat who asks him in a certain nasal accent we have all come to love if he has seen anything of a party of Americans. Spotting him as a new chum, the Brigade Major offers to show him round the line, and proceeds to pull his leg and tells him the most preposterous nonsense. For instance, on a shot being fired miles away he pretends they are in frightful danger, and leads him bent double round and round trenches in the same circle."
"What a shame!"
"Wasn't it? Well, when he gets tired he asks the American if he thinks he has learnt anything. The American says, 'Gee, I've been out here two years now, but I guess you've taught me a whole heap I didn't know. I'm a Canadian tunneller, you know, and I've got to show some Americans our work, but I guess I've had a most interesting time with you."
"Ha! ha!"
"Well now, to put the story into its form. Here's Copy No. 1, on this old envelope. 'Americans coming--Brigade Major sees American looking for party--pulls his leg--pretends to being in frightful danger--American is Canadian who has been out two years.' See? Copy No. 2. Here we begin to till in. Describe Brigade headquarters and previous leg-pulls of Brigade Major. Make up details of what he tells the American--'That's a trench. That thing you fell over is a coil of wire. This is a sunken road--we sunk it, etc., etc.' Copy No. 3, additions and details, little touches of local colour, revision of choice of words, heart-rending erasions. And here, my child," I concluded, bringing out the beautiful, clean, smooth typed copy--"here is the finished work itself, light, pleasant, fluent, humorous and, most important of all, spontaneous."
"Oo! But how awfully cold-blooded. I thought you smiled to yourself all the time you wrote it."
"My dear girl, it takes hours. If I smiled continually all that length of time the top of my head would come off."
"Isn't it wonderful? Fancy building it all up from jottings on an old envelope! What's that piece of paper you took out of the typed copy?"
"Oh, that's nothing to do with the literary side of it," I said, crumpling up the little memorandum, which said that the Editor presented compliments and regretted that he was unable to make use of the enclosed contribution.
It is supposed that his supporter meant to say "not on the mat"--in reference to an incident at the close of Mr. HENDERSON'S Ministerial career. But many a true word is said in the Press by inadvertence.
A DEMOBILISATION DISASTER.
Private Randle Janvers Binderbeck and Private John Hodge both enlisted in 1914. Previously Handle wrote articles, mostly denunciatory. He denounced the Government of the day, tight skirts, Christian Science, scorching on scooters, the foreign policy of Patagonia and many other things. John, on the other hand, had not an agile brain. He worked on a farm in some incredibly primitive capacity, and the only thing that he denounced was the quality of the beer at the "Waggon and Horses." It certainly was bad.
In the Army Randle had no ambition except to get out of it and to remain a private while in it. His ambition for his civil career was tremendous. He tried to prod the placid John into an equal ambition.
"My poor Hodge," said Randle to John, "you must cultivate a soul above manure. Does it satisfy you, as a man made in the image of God, to be able to distinguish between a mangold and a swede? Think of the glory of literature, the power of the writer to send forth his burning words to millions and sway public opinion as the west wind sways the pliant willow."
"I dunno as I'd prefer that to bird-scaring or suchlike," murmured John.
Goaded by such beast-like placidity, Randle would forget all restraint in trying to lash John into a worthy ambition.
It was for talking after "Lights out" that Randle and John were given a punishment of three days' confinement to barracks. Randle, pouring out a devastating torrent of words in the manner of a public orator, bitterly denounced the punishment; John, who had merely snored , bore it with the stoicism of ignorance.
Randle used to dream of Peace Day. He heard Sir DOUGLAS HAIG order his Chief-of-Staff to summon Private Randle Janvers Binderbeck. "Release him at once," said HAIG, in Randle's dream, "to resume his colossal mission as leader and director of public opinion."
If John dreamed, it was of messy farmyards and draughty fields; but it is improbable that he dreamed at all.
They both went to the War and faced the Hun. Randle thought of the Hun only as a possible wrecker of his career, therefore as a foe of mankind. John hardly thought of the Hun except in the course of coming into contact with him, and then he used his bayonet with careless zeal.
It was thoir luck to remain together and unhurt. Then arrived the great day when the Hun confessed defeat. Randle vainly awaited a sign from the Commander-in-Chief.
There came, however, a moment when No. 12 Platoon was paraded at the Company Orderly-room. Particulars were to be taken before filling up demobilisation forms. Men were to be grouped, on paper, according to the nation's demand for their return to civil life.
"Well, Hodge," said the Company Sergeant-Major, "what's your job in civil life?"
"I dunno as I got any special job," said John. "I just sort o' helped on the farm."
"You must have a group," said the C.S.M. "What did you mostly do before the War?"
"S' far as that do go," said John, "I were mostly a bird-scarer."
"'Bird-scarer,'" said the C.S.M. "I know there's a heading for that somewhere. Agricultural, ain't it? 'Bird-scarer.' Ah, here we are. 'Group 1.' You'll be one of the first for release."
The Company Clerk noted the fact, and the C.S.M. called "Next man."
Randle Janvers Binderbeck stepped forward.
"What's your job, Binderbeck?" said the C.S.M.
The futility of the question flabbergasted Randle.
"Come on, man," said the C.S.M.
Randle made an effort. "Journalist," he said.
"'Journalist,'" said the C.S.M., "'Journalist.' Yes, I thought so. 'Group 41.' You've got a long way to go, my lad. You'd have done better if you was a bird-scarer, like Hodge. Them's the boys the nation wants--Group 1 boys. You sticks in the Army for another six months' fatigue. Next man."
That was all.
John Hodge is now soberly awaiting demobilisation, and will not have to wait long.
Randle Janvers Binderbeck is secretly consoling himself by writing the most denunciatory articles. They will never be published, but they afford an alternative to cocaine.
He feels that he can never again consent to sway public opinion as the west wind, etc., in the interests of a nation which rates him forty groups lower than an animated scarecrow.
It is the nation's own fault, Randle is blameless.
A NOISY SALUTE.
"It would be doing Miss Ayres an injustice to suppose that there is only one kiss to remember in the whole of her novel, but the one which gives its title is bestowed by a young and handsome burglar, and received by a girl who mistook the noise he was making for a thunders torm."
FREAKS OF FOOD-CONTROL.
Though Mrs. Midas shows a righteous zeal In preaching self-control at every meal, She never in her stately home forgets To cater freely for her precious pets.
On cheese and soup she feeds her priceless "Pekie"-- Stilton and Cheddar, Bortch and Cocky-leekie; And Max, her shrill-voiced "Pom," politely begs For his diurnal dole of new-laid eggs.
Semiramis, her noble Persian cat, Threatens to grow inelegantly fat Upon asparagus and Shaker oats, With milk provided by two special goats.
Meanwhile her governess subsists on greens, Canned conger-eel or cod and butter-beans, And often in a black ungrateful mood Envies the dogs and cat their daintier food.
A pretty compliment to the naval escort.
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