Anecdotes of the great war, gathered from European sources

BRINGING IN THE NEW YEAR

Seaforth Highlanders’ Quaint Ceremony BRINGING IN THE NEW YEAR Seaforth Highlanders’ Quaint Ceremony The Seaforth Highlanders, now at the front, have one of the most peculiar New Year’s Eve customs of the whole British Army. The ceremony is picturesque and imposing. On the night of Hogmanay, at about half-past ten, the regiment assembles in the barrack square. A few minutes later the oldest soldier in the battalion, dressed up as a druid, makes his appearance, to the accompaniment of a flourish of trumpets, and ascending the improvised throne, he calls on the ancient veterans to show their uniforms and achievements of bygone times. To the music of the pipes and brass band, veteran after veteran, arrayed in the uniforms worn by the regiment at different periods, marches past, and salutes the druid. The druid then toasts “The Seaforth Highlanders.” After a display of Highland dancing, the alarm is sounded, and the second oldest soldier, arrayed as Father Time, approaches. The veterans now retreat, leaving their honors to be guarded by their successors, and Father Time expels the druid. At the last stroke of midnight a loud knock is heard at the gate, and out rings the sentry’s challenge, “Halt! Who goes there?” “The New Year!” comes back the answer. “Advance, New Year, and give the countersign!” is the next command. “Cabar feidth gu brath!” (the clan cry of the Mackenzies, i. e., the Seaforths). “Pass, New Year; all’s well!” The gate is then opened, and the youngest boy of the battalion enters, dressed as the high chief of ancient Ross, to represent the New Year. The colonel shakes hands with the boy, while the band strikes up “A Guid New Year to Ane and A’.” After the colonel’s greeting to the battalion the National Anthem is played, and the men fall out. A WOMAN’S WORRY Mrs. Barron was paying a visit to Mrs. Atkins, whose husband was away fighting at the front. The visitor found the soldier’s wife in a paroxysm of grief. “Whatever is the matter?” exclaimed Mrs. Barron. “Aint yer heard?” was the sobbing reply. “Bill’s in ’orspital with both ’is arms off.” Mrs. Barron was obviously shocked. With a view to easing the grief, however, she said: “But the Government will be sure to provide for you.” “That ain’t it,” was the tearful response. “Who’s a-goin’ to turn the mangle for me on washin’ days now, I’d like ter know?” NOT SUPPLIES ENOUGH FOR TWO When a talk about the German invasion of England was going on, an Irish militiaman, stationed in Carrickfergus, was heard to remark that immediately the enemy landed in England he would certainly bolt, taking a good stock of provisions, and hide in a convenient cave he knew of. The colonel, hearing of his unpatriotic resolve, called him out next day on parade, and lectured him severely on his cowardice. “You’re a disgrace to the regiment and the Service at large,” he cried. “Fancy you threatening to run away; but I’d be after you in quick time, my man, never fear.” “Sure, an’ you’d be welcome, your honor; but, bring yer own praties an’ things, won’t yer, colonel?” LOVE-LETTER TO A RED CROSS NURSE Somewhere in Europe, Some Day in December, 1915. My Dearest Nursie: I suppose I am the same chap who got drilled through the wing rib by a German bullet about a century since? That I haven’t been in heaven, and, not being up to sample, have been shunted to hades? Don’t mistake me, nursie. I’m jolly glad to have another go at the dog that bit me. But last time I left for the front I took my heart with me, and this time I have left it behind in old England. I owe the Germans a grudge, but I owe them a vote of thanks, too. They introduced us, nursie. I didn’t know what living meant until I was wounded and met you. Wounded! Why, my dearest nursie, the wound you dressed so tenderly was a mere flea-bite to the one the first sight of you, a Red Cross angel, hovering about my bed, made bang through my heart. As you know, heart wounds are generally fatal—kill a chap as dead as pork; but, as I have already said, I have found it just the other way about. My heart wound has given me new life, new hope, new courage, a new and better manhood. I have always foolishly regarded women as the weaker sex, but great Kitchener! the Man Killers the Germans can produce and use are nothing to yours, either in range, number, or effectiveness. You take a man prisoner with one glance of your eyes, you put him hopelessly out of action with a quiver of your lip, you leave him dead to everything in earth or sky but your own sweet self with one touch of your dear hand, and you make him your eternal vassal and slave with the flicker of a smile. Melinite is a fool to the galvanic thrill the mere sound of your fairy footstep approaching my bed or my chair used to give me every morning. The German “Black Marias” are mere popguns to the batteries of your sweet eyes, masked at times by their fringed lashes. The German bayonets even at their best cannot begin to compete with the wounds your gentle tongue can inflict by a sharp rebuke, and a charge of Uhlans is nothing to the overwhelming charge of love which sweeps through the ranks of my heart when I think of you. But though I laid siege to your heart, and brought up all the guns and reinforcements I could muster, and although I pride myself on having, by your own confession, captured a few of the outer ring of forts, such as Friendship, Regard, Good Wishes, and Interest, yet I’m horridly afraid that your heart’s real affections are still unconquered. Oh, nursie, I cannot believe that your heart is solid concrete. There’s surely a soft core if I could only get at it. But you can’t prevent me writing. It’s raining in torrents, but rain cannot damp my ardor. The enemy is firing all his big guns at once, but they cannot drive your image from the deep trenches of my soul. There is an aeroplane overhead, but the chap in it does not feel half so uplifted as I do when I think of our last handshake—shall it be a kiss when We meet?—and he would not feel half so cast down, even if he were crashing to earth with a broken wing, as I shall if you do not reply soon. Nursie, say “Yes” for Christmas, there’s a love! With my life’s devotion, Your late patient and grateful convalescent, THOMAS ATKINS. P. S.—I think you are sufficiently interested in my welfare to be glad to hear that I received my commission yesterday, and that our colonel put me to shame before all the chaps by saying all sorts of bosh about a little job I did last week. P. P. S.—Nursie, a little word of three letters—three, mind—by return will make me prouder and happier than if I had been made a field-marshal. HOW HEROES ARE MADE The Germans came down in force upon a patrol of Lancers, who were obliged to retire. One man, however, fell wounded in the thigh, and would have been captured had not a comrade turned back and brought him in under a heavy fire. “Well done, Mac,” said his captain at the close of the fray; “that was a plucky action of yours in bringing Private Johnson in under fire.” “Weel, sir,” replied Mac, “ye see, he’s the only box o’ matches in the whole bloomin’ troop, an’ what’d we do without oor wee bit smoke?” ANNOUNCED HIS ARRIVAL The proud father had come up from the country to see his sailor son on board his ship. He had never seen a battleship before, and accordingly marvelled thereat. Just as he caught hold of the two ropes which hung over the side to assist sailors to the deck, he was somewhat surprised to hear a clanging of bells—the eight bells of seamen’s time. As he stepped on deck he met the officer of the watch. He saluted him and said, timidly: “I beg your pardon, sir, I’ve come to see my son Jack, but, ’pon my word, I didn’t mean to ring so loud.” STEPPED ON IT A certain Staffordshire regiment had a very small band; but the commanding officer’s feet were—well, rather broad. One day the regiment was to march out on parade, but the music was not forthcoming. “Where on earth is the band?” queried the adjutant. For some time there was no reply; but when the question was repeated, a gruff voice from the rear rank said: “I believe, sor, the colonel trod on it be accident!” KING ALBERT’S CHIVALRY Calls Husband to His Wife from Trenches A young Parisian lady, newly married to a French artillery officer who had fought through the battles of the Marne and the Aisne and is now at the Front in Flanders, determined to see her husband at all costs. She left Paris for Dunkirk and tried vainly at the French headquarters to secure a pass. She was, however, not beaten. She travelled in a peasant’s country cart and with many delays to the Belgian headquarters. Taking her courage in both hands, she explained her mission, gained access to the officers of the headquarters staff, and put forward her request. The officers received her with great politeness, listened to her story sympathetically, and told her gently that what she asked was impossible. Just at that moment a tall young officer who had been intently studying a map turned to the lady. “Madame,” he said, “you shall see your husband.” Then he spoke for a few moments through the telephone, and, turning again to the young wife, said, “If you will wait a little while, your husband will come to you.” With tears streaming down her cheeks she seized his hands and thanked him warmly for his kindness. Two hours later there was a joyous meeting between the lady and her husband, who had been bewildered by his sudden recall from the trenches in the midst of a battle. His wife explained how it had all come about, and described the officer through whose kindness the meeting had been made possible. “That was King Albert,” said her husband. FULLY QUALIFIED Quite recently a man appeared at the recruiting offices in Newcastle and stated to the officer in charge that he wished to enlist into His Majesty’s Army. “Well, my man, what regiment do you prefer to join?” asked the officer. “Well,” replied the recruit, “I should like to join the cavalry.” “Cavalry,” repeated the head of the recruiting department. “All right, my man, do you know anything about horses?” “Do I know anything about horses?” replied the would-be recruit, seriously. “Why, I backed a winner and two seconds yesterday!” A FINE SIGHT FOR THE HUNGRY The men of a certain regiment had made some complaints respecting the scarcity of food, but the colonel, a strong believer in the go-away-from-the-table-hungry maxim, saw no grounds for increasing the supply. At last, however, the climax came. The gunnery instructor had one day been explaining to a squad of men the advantages of different sights, when the colonel appeared on the scene and began to ask questions on the subject. “Can any of you men tell me what a fine sight is?” “Yes, sir,” came the reply from a private. “Well, what is it?” The private saluted. “Two dinners, sir, on one plate,” he cried. SERVIAN WOMEN There is no country in the world where women occupy a more dignified or honored position in the home than Servia. The Servian idea is quite different from that of the Turk, who keeps his women behind shut doors, or the German, whose ideal woman is a good hausfrau . In Servia the woman is the companion of the man. A man is responsible for his unmarried sisters, and throughout the Balkan States it is considered rather a breach of etiquette for him to marry before his older sister. No Servian girl would feel she could hold up her head in society unless she could speak four languages. There is hardly a Servian woman who cannot play some musical instrument. Embroidery, painting, drawing and sculpture are all studied. Servian women are very domesticated, and the highest ladies pay personal attention to trivial matters of housekeeping. There are two women doctors practicing in Belgrade, and women teachers galore. But public opinion on the whole is rather against women entering the labor market. SECOND THOUGHT BEST “Every time I see grandfather’s sword and medals,” said Bill, “I long to take part in a universal war.” Then, as an afterthought, Bill said, “But every time I look at grandfather’s wooden leg I long for the advent of universal peace.” PUNISHED FOR HIS NAME It was the drilling of a squad of recruits. The officer was calling the names, and prompt replies came from Jones and Smith and Robinson. The next name was Montaig—that was how the officer pronounced it. There was no reply. “Montaig,” repeated the officer with emphasis. “Here, sir,” came the half-hearted reply from the rear rank. “Why didn’t you answer at once?” said the man in charge. “My name is Montague,” said the recruit. “Is it?” replied the officer. “Well, you do seven days’ fatigew.” THEIR OWN PRIVATE WARFARE One day recently a colonel in a newly-recruited North-country battalion had occasion to reprimand severely one of his men. Next day, passing this same recruit, who was doing sentry duty, the colonel observed he did not receive the usual salute. After intentionally passing him a second and third time with the same omission each time on the part of the sentry, the following conversation took place:— Colonel—“Do you know who I am?” Recruit—“Yes.” Colonel—“Do you not know you ought to salute me, or any other officer when he passes you?” Recruit—“Aye; but then thee and me fell out yesterday.” A BIT OF RUSSIAN WIT Aide-de-Camp to Grand Duke Nicholas—“We have just captured a motor-car containing a German of very high rank. We think it is the Kaiser.” Grand Duke—“For heaven’s sake release him at once. He is our best asset in the field. He always gives the wrong instructions and interferes at the wrong moment.” ARMORED CANADIAN SOLDIERS Like knights of old, the Canadian troops for the front are equipped with armor. It is in the form of a spade, to be carried on the back when not in use, to be used for digging trenches when not wanted for protective purposes, and to act as a shield and rifle-rest when the fighting begins. There is an oval hole in the middle of the blade of the spade. Through this hole the soldier pokes his rifle, just as the archers in the old days used narrow niches in the walls of a castle. Although the spade weighs only four pounds, and can be carried on marches with ease, it is practically bullet-proof. For hours at Valcartier Camp Sergeant Hawkins, the King’s prize-winner, potted at the spades with his rifle, but it was not until he shot at 200 yards with Mark 7 ammunition that the spades were damaged at all. Then they were only cracked. Bullets just shattered against the shields and fell back, shapeless. A company of the 1st Royal Montreal Regiment fired volleys at the spades, without piercing them. TRYING HARD TO GET BY A recruit, well known for his “strategy” when seeking a holiday, went to the doctor and asked for a note, as he said he was ill. The doctor could not find anything wrong with him, but gave him a note, and just marked a stroke where the nature of complaint should be. He went to the chief officer with the note and asked for leave. The officer took the note, looked at it, and then said (for he looked puzzled): “What is this you are suffering from? I can’t tell.” Then our friend took the note, looked at it, and confidently replied: “Can’t you see, sir, that it’s a stroke I’m suffering from?” ONLY ONE ROCK At a certain British club the other day the possibility of providing soldiers with some form of bullet-proof protection was being discussed. “Those bullet-proof shields are an insult to Tommy’s’ dignity, gentlemen,” inveighed a retired military man, whose oft-boasted achievements no living person had ever seen recorded. “What do they want with such feminine accessories? When I was out in India my force faced a galling fire for two hours, and there was no shelter but a little rock for miles; yet though hundreds fell on every side of me, I came off without a scratch.” “That’s an argument in favor of shields,” quietly commented a fellow-clubman. “If there had been more rocks some of the men might have escaped too.” SOUNDS LIKE A TOWN Fogarty (a moderate drinker): “I’ll bet ye th’ Rooshians are beginnin’ t’ feel th’ loss iv vodka.” Flaherty (warmly): “Don’t ye lose any slape over it. Mar-rk me wur-ruds, they’ll retake it agin before long!” THE BISHOP’S PRISONER The Bishop of London discharges his duties in camp as the chaplain of the London Rifle Brigade very thoroughly. One morning a number of men were out scouting, and a recruit, very well up in his drill, took advantage of passing through a wood to loiter behind and have a surreptitious “smoke” behind a clump of trees. He was discovered by the bishop, who, as chaplain, is, of course, an officer of the regiment. The bishop gave the rifleman a good wigging as to his dereliction of duty, and reminded him that he ought really to be the bishop’s prisoner. The rifleman stood at the salute, and, expressing his penitence, the offense was overlooked. The rifleman, who stands well over six feet, in telling the story, says, “That’s the second time I have been personally addressed by the bishop. The first time was some ten years ago, when I was top boy in our parish church choir, and after a service the bishop patted me on the shoulder and commended me for my solo singing! I little thought then that the day would come when I should be his Lordship’s prisoner for my solo smoking .” NECESSARY PRECAUTION He was a very raw recruit, and was paying his first visit to the riding school. He was allotted a horse; but it was obvious, from the nervous way he handled the animal, that he had never been on horseback before. When the instructor came up the recruit pointed to the girth. “What’s it got that strap round it for?” he asked. “Ah!” exclaimed the instructor, with mock admiration, “Fancy you noticing that. You see, that horse has a terrible keen sense of humor, an’ he’s subject to sudden bursts of laughter at some of the recruits he gets; so we puts that band round him to keep him from bursting his sides.” STOPPING THE DONKEY He was instructing some recruits in the mysteries of marching movements. After explaining and illustrating his remarks several times he approached one recruit, looked at him silently for a couple of seconds, then demanded his name. “Fitzgerald, sorr,” was the answer. “Did you ever drive a donkey, Fitzgerald?” was his next inquiry. “Yes, sorr,” was the man’s reply. “What did you say when you wanted him to stop?” “Whoa.” The sergeant turned away and immediately put his squad in motion again. The men advanced a dozen yards or so, when he rasped out: “Squad, halt! Whoa, Fitzgerald!” ONE ON SCOTTY Some friends were in a restaurant the other day discussing the war, when a Scotsman at the next table remarked: “The Alleys are doing verra weel, ar-ren’t they?” One, thinking to be smart, said: “The Alleys! Whom do you mean?” “Why,” said the Scotsman, “the French and the Scotch, of course.” At this the friends roared with laughter. “Aye, you can laugh!” said the Scot. “But I saw my mistake as soon as I spoke. I should have said the Scotch and the French.” DEFYING THE KAISER In a fit of impatience because the speed of his yacht was slowed down on entering a certain harbor, the German Emperor on one occasion tried to assert his authority, and rang the bell for “Full speed ahead.” To his great surprise, the pilot, an old Norwegian named Nordhuns, who knew the dangerous character of the channel, placed himself in the way, and, leaning over the wheel, called down the tube to the engine-room, “Half-speed ahead. Never mind the bell!” “What! You dare to countermand my orders?” cried the Kaiser, again ringing the bell. “Disregard the bell,” calmly repeated Nordhuns through the tube. For a moment the Kaiser glared at the intrepid pilot, and then, drawing himself up to his full height, said, majestically, “Go below, sir, and report yourself under arrest.” “Leave the bridge!” thundered the Norwegian, grimly, as he grasped the wheel more firmly. “This ship is in my charge, and I’ll have no interference with my orders from Kaiser or seaman!” The officers on deck hurried silently aft, wishing luck to the sturdy old sea-dog, who, knowing that he had the law as well as common sense on his side, stood at his post unshaken by threats, unheeding commands, and steered the Hohenzollern safely into port. The next day the Kaiser came to his senses, and decorated the pilot—the king at the wheel—with one grade of the Order of the Black Eagle, and also appointed him his life pilot in Norwegian waters. TEMPERATURE 120° Private Tommy Sims had had pneumonia, and had been for some time in hospital, where they treated him so well that he was much averse to the prospect of being discharged as “cured.” One day the doctor was taking his temperature, and while Tommy had the thermometer in his mouth the doctor moved on, and happened to turn his back. Tommy saw his chance. He pulled the thermometer out of his mouth and popped it into a cup of hot tea, replacing it at the first sign of the medico’s turning. When that worthy examined the thermometer he looked first at Tommy and then back at the thermometer and gasped: “Well, my man, you’re not dead, but you ought to be!” BUT PERHAPS HE CAN DIG TRENCHES The subaltern was being put through an examination in geography, wherein he proved himself astonishingly ignorant. At last, after a failure on his part of unusual flagrance, the examiner scowled at him and thundered:— “Idiot, you want to defend your country, and you don’t know where it is!” LATEST SCOUTING STORY One of the most dangerous duties a scout is called upon to perform in war-time is that of ascertaining whether some particular position is or is not occupied by the enemy’s forces. Every scout has his own methods of working, but the first thing each does is generally to attempt to trap the hidden men into betraying their position. The other day a British scout, who, previous to the outbreak of war, had been a well-known man about town, was told to examine a little wood on the right bank of the ——. He went forward and tried all the usual artifices, including the somewhat threadbare one of pretending to gallop away in alarm, but in vain. Not a German showed himself. Yet the scout was not satisfied, and suddenly a bright thought struck him. He advanced a few paces and, jingling some loose silver in his pocket, roared out: “Waiter! Get me a taxi!” “Yessir! Cert’n’y, sir!” came the reply from some twenty or thirty German soldiers. Force of habit had proved too much for bonds of discipline. CHINESE SYMPATHY The other day a British reservist living in Montreal with his wife and family received the call to join the colors immediately. He decided to take his wife and children to England to stay during his absence. He found the most convenient arrangement would mean leaving Montreal the following day. But it was midweek, and the family wash was at the Chinaman’s. The lady went over to the laundry. The “boys” shook their heads—the wash would not be sorted out before Saturday. But just then the boss laundry-man came in. “Your husband going to the war? Velly brave man. Me work all night to get your laundry.” Next morning it was brought home by the “boss” himself. “How much?” “Nothing. Your husband go to the war. If you stay here all winter me wash all the clothes for the family. Not a cent.” GIVING HIM A SEND-OFF A curious incident was witnessed in a tram-car in a Yorkshire town a day or two back. Two women were seated side by side in earnest conversation. “So tha’s been to see him off?” said one. “Aye,” replied the other. “Ah’ve been to see him off. Eh, dear, but I didna know what to say to him. So I says, ‘Well, good-bye, old lad,’ I says, ’an if tha thoomps t’ Kaiser as tha’s thoomped me he’ll be sorry he went to war!’” SHE KNEW BY EXPERIENCE “Some of our cannon are disappearing,” remarked the lieutenant. “Well, things will disappear when you have careless help,” responded the lady who was going over the fort. “I find that a great trouble about keeping house.” WHERE WAR IS NOT HELL Chatty Neighbor—“I suppose you don’t stand for any war arguments among your boarders?” Boarding House Mistress—“O, yes. You see, our biggest eater gets so interested that he forgets to eat and our next biggest eater gets so mad that he leaves before the meal is half over.” FEROCITY EXPLAINED Bill—“I read as ’ow that ’ere ’Indenburg ’as got an English wife.” Alf—“Ah, that accounts for ’is fightin’ like ’e does.” COULDN’T BE SCOTCH Barman—“Strikes me, there’s one o’ these blooming German spies in the smoke-room, sir. ’E’s bragging about bein’ a Scotsman, and the whisky I took ’im a quarter of an hour ago ’e ain’t even touched yet.” HARDLY HIS FAULT Officer (severely)—“Is this rifle supposed to have been cleaned?” Recent Recruit—“Well, sir—yes. But you know what these servant gals are!” THE GERMANS ABASHED A British naval officer, home on short leave, told a North Sea story. “We had taken some prisoners aboard, three of them officers; one of their torpedoes had missed us by nearly ten feet. “We made the officers as comfortable as we could, gave them food and drink, and talked about ordinary general matters; hardly a word was said about the fight. “The Germans seemed ill at ease, suspicious. At last one of them said, ‘We don’t understand you treating us like this. We tried to torpedo you.’ “‘Oh, that’s all right; that’s over now,’ said a navigating lieutenant, handing him a cigarette. “‘We’d like to show you that we appreciate your goodness,’ went on the German. “There was a long pause. Then the lieutenant burst in with great cheerfulness, ‘Well, sing us the “Hymn of Hate.”’ “That was one of the rare moments when I have seen German officers look abashed.” LOCATING PROGRESS As a young man was walking along reading the evening newspaper he was accosted by an old lady who seemed interested in the war. “Any news from the front, young man?” she exclaimed. “Not much,” he replied. “Big battle in progress.” “Well, thank heaven,” she said, “that it’s not in Belgium, where my poor Johnnie is gone.” HOW I ESCAPED FROM BERLIN Supposed to Be Written by Mrs. Malaprop ’Tis very easy to ask me for an account of my escape from Berlin, but when one has been hustled and fluted and prosecuted as I have, it is a wonder that one’s brain is not totally disinterred. However, in spite of my adventitious experiments, I am still, thank heaven! compote mentis , and can give a strictly voracious prescription of my sufferings. Like Othello, I will “nothing exterminate, nor set up aught in malice.” You may require what I was doing in the great Prussian necropolis. The fact is that after the fatigues of the season I found myself somewhat interposed. I am the last person to give way to a fit of the vapors, but my enemy, the gout, had made such invidious advances and become so chromatic that I was advised to go and reciprocate under the care of a prominent Berlin physician. Despite the diversion which I naturally feel for all Germans, I must admit that his treatment and regiment proved beneficent—though his fees were exuberant—and I was rapidly recovering when the declaration of war burst upon us like a cataplasm. Berlin was at once in a state of convolution. The streets were crowded with people in a very succulent humor, waving flags, singing typical songs, and shouting remarks which deluded recognition, as my knowledge of the language is merely superfluous. Any attempt at leaving the house was not only fertile but periculous, as Englishmen were subjugated to various forms of contumacy, either because the police were useless or with their secret contrivance. I protest I never saw such a panharmonium! Foreign residents had their windows stoned, and abstained many cuts and confusions from the missals. The proprietor of our boarding-house was not actually indolent, but treated me in a very caviare manner, advising me to speak no English. Even neuters, he told me, were being distrained to stimulate a factious enthusiasm for the Kaiser. Next day an official arrived. He asked me if I was English. “Sir,” I replied, “I am no camellia, changing my colors to suit my surroundings.” I think he hardly depreciated my semaphore; he merely told me to pack my trunks in readiness to leave Berlin at a certain hour next day. After another sleepless night passed in anxious participations, four of us were convoyed to the station in a closed vehicle and left for hours on a platform crowded to supplication with fugitives. Some of the women wept quietly, while others gave way to historical outbursts. They gave us nothing but water, and I was induced to eating some digestible chocolate caravans produced by my maid. At last the aliens’ train arrived; but we were at the back of the crowd, and you may imagine my constellation when I discovered that every department had its full quotient of passengers. Seizing a passing official, I exclaimed: “Thou transcendental Triton, is it thus that the confidential visitors, whose gold gorges the coffins of thy treasury, and who patiently suffer the ubiquitous distortions of thy greedy countrymen, are rewarded? Fie, sir! It is larceny—tyranny—barometry of the vilest conscription!” He seemed puzzled, and said, roughly: “Are you Suffer-gette?” “Sir,” I replied, “I will endure no more obliquity. I will say no more. I refuse to omit another syllabus.” He called another official, and after a long discursion, during which they regarded me very strangely, frequently tapping their foreheads, they had a horse-box corrected to the train, into which my maid and I were inducted, attended by a German female. I passed the journey in a sort of comma, and eventually reached England, which it is my firm resolution never to leave again. PERMANENTLY POSTPONED The Irish Guards were holding a position at Ypres, and flying bullets were the order of the day. The Germans endeavored to break through, and after a particularly brisk volley Private Flynn was heard to shout:— “Murder of wars, I’m done now altogether!” “Why, have you been hit?” shouts Captain P——. “Not entoirely hit, sir,” shouts Flynn; “but I’ve been waiting this ten minutes for a smoke from Murtagh’s pipe, and by the powers they’ve just shot it out iv his mouth.” UNINTENTIONAL LIMITATION The vicar of S——— is very patriotic, and has done a great deal of recruiting in his own and the adjoining parishes. He is also very absent-minded. This was never so forcibly brought home to him as on the occasion of the young squire’s wedding. The squire’s regiment was leaving almost immediately for the front, consequently the wedding attracted more than ordinary interest, and the little church was crowded to its utmost capacity. The ceremony proceeded without a hitch, the momentous words had been spoken by the vicar, and repeated by the bridegroom ... “take thee, Phyllis, to my wedded wife,” when the congregation were astounded by the next words from the vicar, “for three years or the duration of the war.” NOTHING NEW TO HIM It was company field-training. The captain saw a young soldier trying to cook his breakfast with a badly-made fire. Going to him, he showed him how to make a quick-cooking fire, saying: “Look at the time you are wasting. When I was on the West Coast I often had to hunt my breakfast. I used to go about two miles in the jungle, shoot my food, skin or pluck it, then cook and eat it, and return to the camp under the half-hour.” Then he unwisely added, “Of course, you have heard of the West Coast?” “Yes, sir,” replied the young soldier, “and also of Ananias and Baron Munchausen, too.” ENGLISH HUMOR Bill—“Have you heard about the Prince of Wales?” Nell—“No. What of His Royal Highness?” Bill—“Well, he had a fall, and remained unconscious for some hours.” Nell—“Oh, poor Prince!” Bill—“But I am happy to say when His Royal Highness came to himself he was none the worse.” Nell—“How did it happen?” Bill—“In this way (not officially denied): It was very late on Monday; he fell—asleep in his bed!” NOT A CARUSO “Proud of ’im, I am,” announced an old lady, whose son had just enlisted, to a knot of friends in the village street. “Always done ’is duty by me, ’e ’as, an’ now ’e’s doin’ ’is duty by King an’ country. I feel right down sorry for them poor Germans to think of ’im goin’ into battle with ’is rifle in ’is ’and an’ ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary’ on ’is lips.” “Poor Germans, indeed!” exclaimed one of her audience. “Pity’s wasted on ’em. P’r’aps you ’aven’t ’eard of their cruelties?” “P’r’aps I ’aven’t,” agreed the old lady, “an’ p’r’aps you ’aven’t ’eard George sing!” IN WAR TIME Short-sighted Customer—“Aren’t you making your rolls a little larger these days, Mr. Baker?” “What! R-r-rolls? Them’s loaves!” GAVE THE SNAP AWAY Amongst some recruits waiting to be passed by the doctor for a Tyneside battalion was a miner from a local colliery, a fine strapping youth. After a good many had been examined, it came to Geordie’s turn, and everyone present thought him a likely recruit. The doctor, after looking at Geordie’s teeth, remarked sadly:— “I’m sorry, my lad, I cannot pass you; your teeth are too bad.” “Wey, if this isn’t a licker,” replied Geordie. “Ye passed th’ same teeth yisterday wi’ Bill Smith, an’ we both borrowed them.” WITHOUT PRECEDENT A certain Yorkshire soldier, who was badly wounded in the jaw at Mons by a German bullet, was, on his return home, relating to an interested group how his company tackled the enemy when the order to charge was given. “Bullets was flyin’ like snowflakes,” he said; “an’ lots o’ our chaps was hit.” “Weel, Tommy,” interrupted one of his listeners, “couldn’t ye hear t’ bullets whizzin’ an’ makin’ a noise as they was comin’ along, an’ so be able to get out o’ their way?” Tommy gave the inquirer a withering look, then replied: “Nay, lad, we couldn’t hear ’em comin’, becos them bullets was Dum-Dum ’uns; an’ did anybody ever hear of aught that was dumb makin’ a noise?” AN AGREEABLE MISTAKE The soldier of four months was recounting his experience of “living on the country” in an Eastern county. He and a comrade had been dispatched with a motor-car to perform a certain mission. After traveling a considerable distance they sighted an inn sign, and, running the car into the yard at the rear, alighted and entered by a back door. A picturesque dame appeared, to whom the bluff and hearty spokesman said: “Now, mother, is there anything to eat?” “Well, you can have some nice cold beef, and if you like to wait half an hour I’ll cook you some potatoes and a cauliflower.” “Ah! Worth waiting for, that is, mother! Right-o!” said the soldier. She smiled approvingly, and told them to go into her own parlor. In due course they were bidden to the feast, over which they were glad to have her preside, for she talked very entertainingly. Eventually the spokesman broached the question of payment. “Now, then, mother, how much do we owe you, please?” “Oh, nothing! I’m sure I’ve been very glad to have you.” “But, look here! I’d never have come in ordering stuff to eat without expecting to pay for it. You know you can’t keep a ‘pub.’ open on dinners for naught! Now, can you, mother?” “No, I can’t, my dear lad! I don’t try to. This isn’t the pub. It’s the house next door!” INCONSIDERATE BEGGAR “What do you think?” exclaimed Mrs. Twobble. “While the Belgian Relief Committee was holding an important meeting yesterday afternoon in my drawing-room a ragged woman came to the house and asked for food. She had a baby in her arms, too!” “What did you do?” asked Mrs. Gadson. “Sent her about her business, of course! I was reading my report to the committee and had no time to bother with stray beggars.” WHAT THE PILOT KNEW Owing to the safeguards which the Admiralty have placed at the entrance to all large British seaports, it is now compulsory for all outward-bound and incoming vessels to be under the charge of a Government pilot. A few weeks ago a Sunderland collier was anchored outside the Humber waiting for his pilot, and incidentally chafing at the delay. Eventually the pilot was shipped and the safe channel entered for Hull, when the captain rather sarcastically remarked: “Do you know where the mines are?” “No,” replied the pilot, “I do not.” “What! you’ve taken over my ship and you don’t know? Well, I might just as well have brought the ship in myself.” The pilot smiled indulgently upon the enraged skipper and said: “Aye, captain, ’tis true I don’t know where the mines are, but I know where they are not.” IT WORKED ALL RIGHT All the work was mapped out for the new charwoman, but about the appointed time she arrived in tears. “My poor ’usband was shot in the battle,” she said, “and ’e’s passed away.” The employer was all sympathy, gave the widow the half-crown she ought to have earned, and did the necessary work herself. The next day she met the neighbor who recommended the woman, and said: “You’ve heard, I suppose, about Mrs. W.’s husband being killed?” “Yes,” said her friend. “But she ought to have got over it by now. It was in the Boer war.” GERMAN GIRLS CAN KNIT A certain Landwehrman had received his hundredth pair of warm woolen stockings knit by fair hands. “Fritz must be a regular Don Juan,” said one of his less fortunate comrades. “No,” said another, a fellow-townsman of the accused. “No, it isn’t that. The fact is, Fritz, before the war came, was teacher in a girls’ school.” BLOCKHEAD, EH? Sergeant—“Now, then, don’t you know how to hold a rifle?” Recruit—“I’ve run a splinter in me finger.” Sergeant (exasperated)—“Oh, you ’ave, ’ave you? Bin scratchin’ yer ’ead, I suppose?” HIS SOLE REASON As the sergeant was bawling out his orders and watching the line of feet as the raw recruits endeavored to obey the word of command, he found to his astonishment that one pair of feet—more noticeable on account of their extra large size—never turned. Without taking his eyes off these feet the sergeant bawled out, “About turn!” He could see that all the feet except those he watched turned in obedience. Rushing up to the owner, a little fellow, he seized him by the shoulder, shouting: “Why don’t you turn with the rest?” “Why, I did,” replied the trembling recruit. “You did, eh? Well, I watched your feet, and they never moved.” “It’s the boots they gave me, sir,” said the poor fellow. “They’re so large that when I turn my feet turns in them.” IGNORANCE IS BLISS The two servants met in the tram. “Does this war they’re talking so much about make much difference to you?” “The missus says we’ve got to economize, so we’ve to have margarine at meals in the kitchen.” “Doesn’t she have it, then?” “Not her. She says it doesn’t suit her digestion. But there’s nothing wrong with her digestion. We know that. For as often as not we send her up the margarine and have the butter ourselves.” STROKE OF LUCK A story is current that a certain colonel of a British regiment offered to give a sovereign for every German killed by any of his men. It happened shortly after this that a sergeant and a private were out spying around, and took different points for observation. After a while the private crawled up to the sergeant with a look of suppressed excitement on his face, and in a tense whisper said: “Here’s a fine piece of luck for us, sergeant! There’s four thousand Germans over yonder, and there’s only you and me for ’em. Won’t we rake some quids in now?” SPECIMEN WANTED Mr. Horace Wyndham has published a book on his military experiences, in which he quotes the reply of an Egyptian clerk to a demand for 1,000 rations for a Middlesex Regiment. “Honorable Sir—Estimable telegram to hand, but not understood. Male sex I know well; ditto female sex. Middlesex, however, not familiar. Please send specimen.” A LONE EXCEPTION He was a new recruit home on leave. “Halloa,” said a friend, “how are you going on? Applied for a commission yet?” “Not me. All the rest in my battalion are sending in their names, I think; but I say that a regiment needs at least one regular, steady private.” CLEVER EXPEDIENT During a sham fight which constituted part of a certain infantry battalion’s training for the war a company was told off to follow up the retreating “enemy.” For this purpose the pursuers, who had been having a strenuous time, had to cross a fairly wide river, and were marched to the nearest bridge, which was about four miles away. Imagine their disappointment on arriving to find this notice attached to the bridge by the “enemy:” “This bridge is blown up.” But the officer in command of the pursuers was a man of action, and promptly attached another notice to one of his leading men and proceeded to march them across the bridge. They had almost crossed it, when an umpire suddenly appeared, frantically waving his hands and exclaiming: “This bridge is blown up; all these men are drowned!” The commanding officer made no reply, but simply pointed to his notice, which read: “This company is swimming across!” WHICH WOULD YOU PATRONIZE? It was Saturday night, and the rival butchers were shouting against each other. “’Ere’s a piece of beef,” shouted one, “any price yer like. No war prices here.” The other was equal to the occasion. “Come ’ere,” he shouted. “Don’t ’ave piece at any price; have piece with honor.”

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