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Read Ebook: Punch or The London Charivari Vol. 148 February 17th 1915 by Various Seaman Owen Editor
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Ebook has 232 lines and 20209 words, and 5 pages
CHARIVARIA.
The Turks are now reported to be retiring through the desert, and the Germans are realising that you may take a horse to the place where there's no water, but you cannot make him drink.
"Rapid progress," we read, "is being made in the American movement to supply soldiers at the battle fronts in Europe with Bibles printed in their own languages." We trust that one will be supplied to the KAISER, who, if he ever had one, has evidently mislaid it.
Suggested title for Germany and her allies--The Hunseatic League.
You may know a man by the company he keeps. The KAISER'S friends are now the Jolly Roger and Sir ROGER CASEMENT.
Messrs. HAGENBECK, of Hamburg, are sending Major MEHRING, the German Commandant at Valenciennes, an elephant. So we may expect shortly to be told by wireless that a large Indian body has gone over to the Germans.
The Dorsets, we are told, have nicknamed their body belts "the dado round the dining-room." In the whirligig of fashion the freeze is now being ousted by its predecessor.
Much of the credit for the admirable feeding of our Expeditionary Force is due, we learn, to Brigadier-General LONG, the Director of Supplies. As a caustic Tommy, pointing to his "dining-room," remarked, "one wants but little here below, but wants that little Long."
Talking of regimental pets, the lucky recipient of Princess MARY'S Christmas gift that was packed by the QUEEN is Private PET, of the Leinster Regiment.
With reference to the private view of a collapsible hut at the College of Ambulance last week it is only fair to say that there is good reason to believe that not a few of those already erected will shortly come under this description.
The Russian Minister of Finance, M. BARK, paid a visit to this country last week, and it is rumoured that he had an interview with another financial magnate, Mr. BEIT, with a view to forming an ideal combination.
Says an advertisement of the Blue Cross Fund:--"All horses cared for. Nationality not considered." This must save the Fund's interpreters a good deal of trouble.
Germany is now suffering from extreme cold, and the advice to German housewives to cook potatoes in their jackets is presumably a measure of humanity.
To Mr. WATT'S enquiry in the House as to how many German submarines had been destroyed, Mr. CHURCHILL replied, "The German Government has made no return." Let us hope that this is true also of a good few of the submarines.
Theatrical folk will be interested to hear that in the Eastern Theatre of War there has been furious fighting for the passes.
Are we to understand, that, so far, we have only called out the socks and body-belts?
"There is but one survival among the historic shows of the Palace--a portion of the Zoo. The monkeys are asking one another 'What next?'
Without wishing to be needlessly offensive to either of these bodies, we venture to suggest that they should combine their deliberations.
The land police must be guarded even more vigorously if "no copper at all" is to slip over.
THE GODS OF GERMANY.
Lift up your jocund hearts, beloved friends! From East and West the heretic comes swooping, But all in vain his impious strength he spends If you refuse to let him catch you stooping; All goes serenely up to date; Lift up your hearts in hope !
Deutschland--that beacon in the general night-- Which faith and worship keep their fixed abode in, Shall teach the infidel that Might is Right, Spreading the gospel dear to Thor and Odin; O let us, in this wicked war, Stick tight to Odin and to Thor!
Over our race these gods renew their reign; For them your piety sets the joy-bells pealing; Louvain and Rheims and many a shattered fane Attest the force of your religious feeling; Not Thor's own hammer could have made A better job of this crusade.
In such a cause all ye that lose your breath Shall have a place reserved in high Valhalla; And ye shall get, who die a Moslem's death, The fresh young houri promised you by Allah; Between the two--that chance and this-- Your Heaven should be hard to miss.
O. S.
THE PASSPORT.
"Francesca," I said, "how would you describe my nose?"
"Your nose?" she said.
"Yes," I said, "my nose."
"But why," she said, "do you want your nose described?"
"I am not the one," I said, "who wants my nose described. It is Sir EDWARD GREY, the--ahem--Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. In the midst of all his tremendous duties he still has time to ask me to tell him what my nose is like."
"This," said Francesca, "is the short cut to Colney Hatch. Will somebody tell me what this man is talking about?"
"I will," I said. "I am talking about my nose. There is no mystery about it."
"No," she said, "your nose is there all right. I can see it with the naked eye."
"Do not," I said, "give way to frivolity. I may have to go to France. Therefore I may want a passport. I am now filling in an application for it, and I find to my regret that I have got to give details of my personal appearance, including my nose. I ask you to help me, and all you can do is to allude darkly to Colney Hatch. Is that kind? Is it even wifely?"
"But why can't you describe it yourself?"
"Don't be absurd, Francesca. What does a man know about his own nose? He only sees it full-face for a few minutes every morning when he's shaving or parting his hair. If he ever does catch a glimpse of it in profile the dreadful and unexpected sight unmans him and he does his best to forget it. I give you my word of honour, Francesca, I haven't the vaguest notion what my nose is really like."
"Well," she said, "I think you might safely put it down as a loud blower and a hearty sneezer."
"I'm sure," I said, "that wouldn't satisfy Sir EDWARD GREY. He doesn't want to know what it sounds like, but what it looks like."
"How would 'fine and substantial' suit it?"
"I don't," she said.
"And if 'substantial' is to be equivalent to handsome."
"It isn't," she said.
"Then we'll abandon that line. How would 'aquiline' do? Aren't some noses called aquiline?"
"Yes," she said, "but yours has never been one of them. Try again."
"Francesca," I said pleadingly, "do not suggest to me that my nose is turned up, because I cannot bear it. I do not want to have a turned-up nose, and what's more I don't mean to have one, not even to please the British Foreign Office and all its permanent officials."
"It shan't have a turned-up nose, then. It shall have a Roman nose."
"Bravo!" I cried "Bravo! Roman it shall be," and I dipped my pen and prepared to write the word down in the blank space on the application form.
"Stop!" said Francesca. "Don't do anything rash. Now that I look at you again I'm not sure that yours is a Roman nose."
"Oh, Francesca, do not say such cruel, such upsetting things. It must, it shall be Roman."
"What," she asked, "is a Roman nose?"
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