ANECDOTES OF THE GREAT WAR

BLANKETY-BLANK

Mrs. Waring—“What language do the Belgians use, Paul?”

Mr. Waring—“I don’t know; but I know what language I’d use if I were a Belgian!”

HAS A MONOPOLY

“How is it that nobody ever ventures to discuss the war with Jinks, and he has all the talking to himself?”

“Well, you see, he’s the only fellow in the club who knows how to pronounce the names of those Russian and Polish jawbreaker towns.”

MERE TYPOGRAPHICAL ERROR

The proprietor of a café at Havre, in endeavoring to please his large-increased British clientèle, as a consequence of the war, started his menus in English. The first effort of the local printer was:—

“Soup, fish, entrée, joint, sweet, wife and coffee included.”

Three francs was the price, and one might say not at all dear at that figure.

FIGHT OR I QUIT YOU

Mabel—“I think I shall give up my flat next week.”

Maud—“Why, is it too small?”

Mabel—“No; he won’t enlist.”

WOULDN’T BACK OUT

One night General —— was out on the line and observed a light on the mountain opposite. Thinking it was a signal-light of the enemy, he remarked to his artillery officer that a hole could easily be put through it. Whereupon the officer, turning to the corporal in charge of the gun, said:

“Corporal, do you see that light?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Put a hole through it,” ordered the captain.

The corporal sighted the gun, and, when all was ready, he looked up and said:

“Captain, that’s the moon.”

“Don’t care for that,” was the captain’s ready response; “put a hole through it, anyhow.”

UNDER CANVAS

“Yes,” sighed the mother, “I am so often worried about my boy John. You have no idea how much concerned a mother is when her son is on the tented field.”

“Ah!” said the sympathetic listener. “And what regiment is your son with?”

“Regiment? Oh, he isn’t with the army—he’s employed in a traveling circus.”

PUNCTURED

“Reckon I look a reg’lar Bluebird,” quoth Tommy to himself, as he caught a khaki reflection of himself in a looking-glass.

On going nearer he gazed at the rough stubble of his chin ruefully, and took a thoughtful look at his watch.

“Just time,” he muttered, as he pushed open the door of an unknown barber’s shop.

That worthy, with patriotic fervor, placed himself at the disposal of Tommy absolutely, and, between various tricky questions on points of war, nicked and gashed the poor soldier’s face with consummate skill.

The job finished, the barber surveyed Tommy with pride and admiration as he flicked him down with a towel. Our hero, however, again went and surveyed his face in the glass.

“Give me a drink of water!” he gasped.

“You ain’t going to faint?” exclaimed the alarmed hairdresser.

“No—oh, no,” calmly replied Tommy, staunching the wounds on his face. “I just want to see if my mouth’ll hold water!”

HE WANTED POTATOES

A section of British infantry entered a French village in the evening and were going to billet for the night, so many thought it a good chance to cook a hot supper. A private had foraged round and found everything to make a good Irish stew except the potatoes. Being unable to speak French, he asked his section commander what was the French for potatoes. The section commander, being a bit of a wit and scenting some fun, replied, “Bon soir” (“Good evening”).

The private in perfect good faith went up to a house door and was answered by a Frenchwoman, who did not understand one word of English, and the following conversation occurred:

Private—“Bon soir.”

Frenchwoman—“Bon soir, monsieur.”

Private—“Yes, bon soir.”

Frenchwoman—“Bon soir, monsieur.”

Private—“Yes, yes! Some bon soirs, please.”

Thomas Atkins, seeing the look of amazement on the good Frenchwoman’s face, and seeing a potato lying in the roadway, thought he had better adopt different tactics, so, picking up the potato and showing it to the woman, said: “Here, missus, give us some of these blooming spuds!”

ABSENT-MINDED BEGGAR

The “Tommy” on leave from the front had been given a free railway pass to take him home to see his people, and he utilized part of his brief holiday to get married. On the return journey, when the ticket-inspector asked to see his pass, he produced by accident his marriage lines.

The inspector handed the paper back with a glimmer of a smile.

“This is a ticket for a very long and wearisome journey, young man,” he said, “but not on this line.”

AND THE TOOTUNS, TOO

First Native—“We’re doin’ fine at the war, Jarge.”

Second Native—“Yes, Jahn; and so be they Frenchies.”

First Native—“Aye; an’ so be they Belgians an’ Italyuns an’ Rooshians.”

Second Native—“Aye; an’ so be they Allys. Oi dunno where they come from, Jahn, but they be perfect fiends for fightin’.”

WAR BRIDE RETORTS

Soldier’s Unmarried Wife (who has been living with her man for eleven years, to charming and aristocratic widow, the local representative of the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Families’ Association)—“Well, ma’am, I am going to be married next week, and I want you to come to the wedding. You’ve been so kind it would not be right without you.”

Fair Widow—“I shall be delighted to come, Mrs. Brown. What day is it?”

Mrs. Brown—“On Thursday, ma’am.”

Fair Widow—“That is very unfortunate. I am afraid I cannot go, as I have another important engagement.”

Mrs. Brown—“Is it very important, ma’am? Can’t you put it off?”

Fair Widow—“Well, the truth is, I am going to be married myself.”

Mrs. Brown—“Ah, I quite understand. It doesn’t do to miss the chance of getting righted when you gets the opportunity, does it now, ma’am?”

TO A CIGARETTE—IN THE TRENCHES

SOME BOSS

How Lord Kitchener is regarded in the English army was shown once in amusing fashion at a “geographical tea-party.”

It was noticed that a young subaltern came into the room with a tiny portrait of Lord Kitchener in his buttonhole. No one could guess what geographical significance could be attached to it. At last the young man explained that what he had intended to convey was “The Bos-phor-us.”

WHAT MUFFS ARE FOR

“You are a regular muff, sir,” said an exasperated sergeant, after vainly trying to drill a recruit.

“Thank you sir,” replied the latter; “if I am a muff, I have done my duty—I have made you warm!”

GOING THE LIMIT

Even the war has its bright side. Two negro porters were discussing it as they waited for a train to pull into the station.

“Man,” said the first, “dem Germany submaroons is sho’ly gwine to sink de British navy. Yas, sir-ee, dey’s sho’ly gwine to ’splode dem naval boats dat’s waitin’ out yonda.”

“Sho!” said porter number two. “An’ what’s gwine ter happen den?”

“Why, dem Germany submaroons’ll come right on ’cross de ocean an’ splode de rest ob de naval boats ob de world. Dat’s what’ll happen den, Sambo!”

“Well, looky heah, Gawge. Ain’t yo’ an’ me better decla’ ouahselves a couple o’ noot—nootral—nootralities?”

“Man,” said Gawge, “yo’ all kin be a nootrality if yo’ wants to. Ah’m a German!”

TOMMY ATKINS EXPLAINS WHY “IT’S A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY”

Scene: A street in a French town. Enter Thomas Atkins, singing; he meets Jean Pioupiou.

T. A.—“‘It’s a long, long way to Tipperary, it’s—’ Halloa, cocky—how goes it?” (Holds out his hand, genially.)

J. P.—“Ah, mon cher ami! ‘For eeze a zholi good fellow,’ nest-ce-pas?” (Attempts to embrace his new friend.)

T. A.—“Whoa, mare—steady on! You make me blush, old sport—it’s not the thing where we come from. Kiss the girls—not half! But the men—not in these!”

J. P.—“You come from Teeperary—a long, long way, peut-être?”

T. A.—“Me? Never was there in the whole course of my natural, cher ami, see voo play, mong cher frère. What price my parley-vooing, eh?”

J. P.—“Charmant—charmant! Vous parlerez bientôt—”

T. A.—“Cut it, old dear; I like you—you’re hot stuff; but your queer langwidge is a bit too thick. Have a fag? No offense.”

J. P.—“Merci bien, m’sieu. Mais dites-moi—tiens! Tell me, eef you please, where is zis Teeperary, and why you sing always of it such a ’long, long way?’ Ees it that you all come from there?”

T. A.-“Well, I never met anybody yet who’d been there, but I’ll tell you one thing—promise you won’t let on?”

J. P.—“‘Let on?’ Pardon—I do not—”

T. A.—“You won’t tell anyone?”

J. P.—“Ah, non, non—pas un mot!”

T. A.—(Whispers hoarsely) “It’s in Ireland.”

J. P. (Ecstatically) “Ah—Teeperary ees in Ireland! Eet is the Hymne National of les Irlandais sans doute; the—what do you say—the National Anthem of that country!”

T. A.—(Rather taken aback) “Well, not exactly a hymn, my son. You’re a long way off it yet.”

J. P.—“‘A long, long way’ off eet, hein? But why so very far to this place you sing of? And why do you celebrate it so loudly on your marching?”

T. A.—(Puzzled) “Blowed if I know. It’s a long way because—you see, you’d have to cross the Channel; then first on the left and straight on till you board the Irish packet; then—ask a policeman. See?”

J. P.—(Sadly) “Ah, oui, oui. Je ne comprends pas—mille regrets.”

T. A.—“You no comprenny, eh? Same here—left my geography home on the piano, else I’d put it clearer.” (An idea comes to him.) “You see, it’s like this: we take Tipperary as kind of representative—oh, very hot. Now I’m oratin’. Twig?”

J. P.—“Pardon?”

T. A.—(Very earnestly, explaining to himself as well as his friend) “Means lots of things, Tipperary—home, the girl, a square feed, plenty of ’baccy, and the old pals, you know; all signified by the word ‘Tipperary.’ Understand? We pack it up tight for convenience in transport, and when we sing it, it all comes out—the jolly things we’ve left behind. Got it?”

J. P.—(Smiling happily) “Ah, bien entendu—you ‘pack it’—ze Irish packet of which you have spoke, is it not?”

T. A.—(Groaning softly) “Oh, Lord! Cheese it, Frenchie—you make me perspire. What I mean is, when we sing ‘Tipperary’ it reminds us of all these things. And we like it. Makes us feel nice all over.”

J. P.—(Joyously) “Voilà—comme c’est bon—c’est symbolique, un coup de l’imagination, n’est-ce-pas?”

T. A.—(Catching the word) “That’s it—you’ve struck it; it sets our imagina-see-on to work. Also it’s a special swanky tune for marching to; makes you forget your poor feet. Like the tune, eh? Savvy? Tipperary—you ’preciate the air—le music, tray bong, nace-pah?”

J. P. (Beaming) “La musique—la mélodie—ah, oui, mais c’est—how do you say him?” (triumphantly): “Luv-lee!”

T. A.—(Enthusiastically) “Oh, good! Bong garsong! You cottoned on beautifully that time, anyhow.”

J. P.—“Comment?”

T. A.-“Come on? Where? Oh, I see—one of your words. Well?”

J. P.—“But, tell me, eet is how long—how far—to Teeperary?”

T. A.—(Desperately) “Now look here, old dear; I’ve had enough of this. You take it from me there’s some things you bally well can’t get the hang of, and this is one of ’em. Never mind; donny-moi one of those funny little black fags of yours and we’ll toddle to a caffy and drink to William the Conqueror—I don’t think. Come on!”

J. P.—“Comment?”

T. A.—“That’s what I said.” (Takes his arm and sings): “‘It’s a long—’”

J. P. (Joining in with huge glee as they go off) “‘—long way to Teeperary, eet’s a long, long way to go-o-o—’” (Exeunt.)

PLENTY TO CHOOSE FROM

Will Irwin, the war correspondent, supped in London recently with Lincoln Springfield, editor.

“Lord Kitchener,” said Mr. Irwin, “told a young lady some years since that, if he ever married, his choice would be a German widow.”

“Well, he’s making plenty of them now,” chuckled Mr. Springfield.

WINNING A BET

One of the best stories told about Sir John French is how, one night at dinner, some officers were discussing rifle-shooting. The general was listening, as was his wont, without making any remark, until at length he chipped in with:

“Say, I’ll bet anyone here,” in his calm, quiet, deliberate way, “that I can fire ten shots at 500 yards and call each shot correctly without waiting for the marker. I’ll stake a box of cigars on it.”

The major present accepted the offer, and the next morning the whole mess was at the shooting range to see the trial.

Sir John fired. “Miss!” he announced. He fired again. “Miss!” he repeated. A third shot. “Miss!”

“Hold on there!” protested the major. “What are you doing? You are not shooting at the target at all.”

But French finished his task. “Miss!” “Miss!” “Miss!”

“Of course I wasn’t shooting at the target,” he said. “I was shooting for those cigars.”

COCKNEY GERMAN

He was a shining light of the Intelligence Corps, and before he arrived at Swakopmund his abilities as a linguist were spoken of with bated breath. To him there came his captain.

“Glad you’ve come, Jones,” said he; “we need a man who speaks German. Take a file and go down and tell that officer we made a prisoner yesterday that I’ll give him parole, but if he attempts to escape he’ll be shot.”

Off marched Jones, full of the importance of his task.

“Sprechen sie Deutsch?” he asked the chap, to the great admiration of the onlookers.

“Ja, ja,” said the big German, eagerly, glad to find some one who understood him at last.

“Oh! yer do—do yer?” said Jones. “Well, old sauerkraut, the captain says as ’ow ’e’ll give yer parole, but if you blooming well tries to skip it, there’s a bullet for yer! See?”

IT PAYS TO ADVERTISE

When the opposing lines of trenches are near enough together, bombs of all kinds are being used by both belligerents. Some of these bombs are made out of old jam tins; and it is related how, when one Pure Plum and Apple, bearing the maker’s name, had succeeded in reaching its destination, the following plaintive remark was heard from the German trenches:

“Ach, Himmel! These English, these shopkeepers, how dey vos advertise!”

ENGLISH MILITARY SLANG Tommy and His War Talk

The fondness of soldier-boys for nicknames and slang is proverbial. Their talk in barrack-room and camp would at times puzzle the most versatile of linguists, for “Tommy” prides himself on the originality of his expressions. He has already developed a slang of his own in connection with the German war, and the official despatches mention that he has dubbed the huge German shells “coal-boxes,” “Black Marias,” “Jack Johnsons,” and “suit-cases.” Trenches exposed to artillery fire are “stalls for the pictures,” while when an artilleryman makes a good shot he chuckles over the fact that he has “handed the Germans a good plum.”

Wire entanglements are known as the “Zoo,” while German spies are “playing offside.” “Flag-waggers” and “helio-wobblers” for signalmen are fairly obvious nicknames, and the latter’s grin when they hear them is only equaled by that of the members of the Medical Corps, who are known by the somewhat undignified names of “poultice-wallopers” or “linseed lancers.”

The Ordnance Store Corps has been nicknamed the “Sugar-Stick Brigade,” on account of the trimmings on its uniform. Tall men in the army are generally referred to as “lofties,” and more often than not a cavalryman calls his horse his “long-faced chum,” buglers being “fiddlers” or “wind-jammers.”

In ordinary conversation “Tommy” speaks of his clothes as his “clobber,” and the canteen as the “tank,” a man who talks too much being known as a “chin-wagger.” To be in hospital is to be “in dock,” while money is referred to as “oof,” “rhino,” “the ready,” “pewter,” or “shiners.” A sovereign is a “canary,” and if a man wants to borrow money he is “trying to raise a station” or “to get his feet under” (meaning the canteen-table).

The man who drinks a lot is known as a “mopper,” and “bun-stranglers” are temperance soldiers.

A Reservist is a “dug-out,” a recruit a “rookie,” and a veteran an “old sweat.” A wheelwright in the artillery is a “spoky,” while the long-service medal is called the “rooti” medal—“rooti” being the slang term for bread, because the owner has eaten most. Puttees are known as “war socks,” and jam as “possie.”

INFORMATION WANTED

The way they do things in some of the odd corners of the British Empire, where they are comparatively free from wireless telegrams, is very pretty. The officer in charge of a certain hinterland received from his superior officer at the base some time in August this message:

“War has been declared. Arrest all enemy aliens in your district.”

With commendable promptitude the superior officer received this reply:

“Have arrested seven Germans, four Russians, two Frenchmen, five Italians, two Roumanians, and an American. Please say who we’re at war with.”

THE AMUSING MONOCLE

“Say, pop,” said the American tourist’s little boy in London, “why does that there soldier wear an eyeglass only on one eye?”

“So he kin use t’other one to see with!” Mr. Scrapple answered.

SURROUNDED!

A weaver, who is noted for his joking propensities, took his fellow-workers quite unawares the other morning. He was reading, as has been his custom since the war began, the latest news of Army and Fleet. After glancing through the first page they were astonished to see Jock looking wildly about him, and gesticulating to his partner.

“What dost think? What dost think? British Fleet ’as gotten surrounded. Dost yer? Dost yer? Our Fleet ’as gotten surrounded!”

In less than five minutes they were off scanning their papers for the unbelievable news. At last one of the weavers, not being able to find the news in his paper, approached Jock.

“Aw say, Jock, lad, wheer is it?”

“Wheer’s what? Th’ British Fleet? Whey, in t’ North Sea, aw reckon.”

“Aw mean wheer did ta see it about t’ German Fleet having surrounded our Fleet?”

“Aw never said owt about th’ German Fleet; aw said our Fleet ud gotten surrounded.”

“Well, what else con it be surrounded wi’, then?”

“Whey, it’s surrounded wi’ waythur, tha foo’!”

TEXT FOR A BIG “STORY”

An English correspondent said in Washington:

“I once tried to interview Lord Kitchener, the English war minister. I tackled him after dinner in a hotel lounge as he sipped his coffee and puffed on a huge cigar. He stared at me when I proffered my request, then he blew a cloud of smoke and said:

“‘I never gave an interview in my life, and I never intend to.’

“This seemed decisive enough. I felt myself getting red, and I stammered, as I prepared to go:

“‘Well, then, Lord Kitchener, will you at least give me your autograph? It would be worth having.’

“He blew another cloud of smoke. Then he answered:

“‘You’d better go off and make your own autograph worth having.’”

NOT AS IT SEEMED

Whilst making his usual daily inspection of the stables the colonel noticed Private Jones giving his horse a piece of lump sugar.

“I am very pleased to see you making much of your horse, Private Jones,” he said; “it shows that you regard him with the true spirit, and I will not forget you for it.”

Private Jones waited until his commanding officer was out of earshot, and then turned to his neighbor.

“I wasn’t making much of him,” he said. “The blighter threw me off this morning, and I’m trying to give him the blinkin’ toothache.”

THERE WERE HOPES

Mollie (aged seven), English, and proud of it, was presented with a new and beautiful doll one morning.

A little later in the day she discovered the horrid fact that it was “made in Germany.”

For a few tense moments the pride of her new possession had a mental wrestle with patriotism. Then Mollie remarked:

“Well, never mind, she’s very young, and I’ll bring her up English.”

FAMILIAR SOUNDS

He had been a riveter in one of the large shipyards, and was used to the din and roar of the thousands of hammers used in connection therewith, which causes deafness to many of the men engaged in this occupation.

When the call of King and Country sounded he nobly responded and enlisted, and was eventually drafted to the front.

It happened that the first of his nights near the scene of action was supremely quiet, but just before daylight the enemy’s guns came into action, and the boom and roar of the “Jack Johnsons,” etc., woke him with a start, and he gazed round the unusual surroundings of his billet.

“What’s wrong, mate?” asked one of the old hands, seeing the expression on his face; “did you think the world was comin’ to an end?”

“No,” was the reply, “but I thought I had slept in, and they had started work without me.”

IMPORTANT MESSAGES

Recruiting is responsible for a good story from Carmarthenshire. One of the latest accessions to Kitchener’s army is a stalwart man 6 feet 2 inches in height, from the heart of the country, and on joining he expanded his chest with pride and ejaculated, “Now for the Germans.”

The following day he received from London a telegram: “Heartiest congratulations.—Kitchener.”

This was duly shown around, but next morning his pride was boundless on receiving the Royal message: “The Empire is proud of you.—George.”

It was not until the third day, when he received a wire, “For Heaven’s sake, keep neutral.—Wilhelm,” that he realized a waggish friend had been pulling his leg.

THE JEW AND THE CROSS

“I am told,” said the Kaiser, “that you are a very poor man, and the only support of your aged parents. Because of your poverty you shall have your choice between taking the Iron Cross or a hundred marks.”

“Your Majesty,” inquired the hero, “what is the Cross worth in money?”

“Not much,” said the Emperor. “It is the honor that makes it valuable. It is worth perhaps two marks.”

“Very well, then,” said Einstein, drawing himself up to his full height and saluting. “I will take the Iron Cross and ninety-eight marks in cash!”

RETREAT IN ORDER

Even an extremely aggressive enemy can be conquered by strategy; it is only a question of employing the stratagem fitted to the case.

An open-air preacher of East London understood this, and his stratagem fitted to a charm. He was addressing a crowd when a soldier who had been drinking came up and ridiculed the service. Finding it was useless to ignore the man, the preacher said:

“Ah, my friend, you’re no soldier. No servant of the King would get drunk and interrupt a peaceful service.”

The man said he was a soldier, and asked the preacher to test him.

“Very well,” was the reply, “I will. Now, then, attention!”

This the soldier did as well as his condition would allow.

“About—turn!”

This order was also obeyed, though with some trouble.

“Quick march!”

And off went the valiant soldier, marching down the road at a quick pace, while the preacher resumed his address.

SUFFICIENTLY EQUIPPED

Recruiting Sergeant—“I can’t enlist you, my good man; you have only one eye.”

Patriotic Scotsman—“Hoots! that disna matter. Ye’ve tae shut ae e’e whin yer shootin’ onywey.”

“NEXT OF KIN”

A good recruiting story, told by an officer at Seaforth, shows how prone is a simple mind to be confused by the elaborate cross-questioning which the new recruit has to undergo. The officer was entrusted with the collection of particulars necessary for the allotment of allowances to the soldiers’ dependents.

He was interrogating a young fellow who did not seem to have a clear idea what it was all about.

“Next of kin?” he asked, in a sharp, business-like way.

The young soldier dropped his voice and became confidentially apologetic.

“I’m only wearing a jersey,” he replied; “my shirt’s getting washed.”

HIS BROTHER’S TASK

A young lad applied for work the other day at a shed in Burnley, where his three brothers had worked previously, but had ’listed.

The manager, a thorough patriot, told the lad he could find him two looms at once, and then asked him:

“How’s your brother Frank going on?”

“’E’s out at the front, sir, feighting.”

“Is your brother Albert out in France as well?”

“Yes, sir, ’e’s wi’ eawr Frank—same regiment.”

“Your eldest brother, Jack, will be out there also, I reckon?”

“No,” said the youngster, with a proud shake of the head; “eawr Jack hesn’t gone to France yet. ’E’s mindin’ India!”

THE SERGEANTS’ MESS

“Do you mean that you want me to press your trousers?” she demanded, with all the sternness she could muster.

“Why, certainly, my dear,” replied Sergeant Euchre, affably. “Am I asking too much?”

“Well, I should just about think so, Charles William. I’d have you know that when you married me you didn’t marry a flat-iron.”

Charles William thought a lot. That same evening Mrs. Euchre chipped in with, “Oh, Charles, you might just button my dress up the back before you go out.”

But Sergeant Euchre merely filled his pipe as he chuckled softly, “Not much, popsy-wopsy. You must remember that when you accepted me you did not marry a buttonhook.”

And setting his cap at a rakish angle, he made for the sergeants’ mess.

BOUND TO KEEP OUT OF IT

A recruiting sergeant, holding forth on the absolute necessity of every man enlisting, encountered an Irish wit.

“Halloa, John! Why can’t you join the Colors? I don’t know how any man can stand aside in such terrible circumstances. Why, what would you do if the enemy came over here, eh?”

“Oh,” said John, “that’s the simplest thing on earth. Why, shure, I’d enlist for foreign service then.”

CLEVER MACKAY

Private John Mackay was pondering over the common problem of “raising the wind.” He was absolutely stony, hadn’t even the money to buy himself a packet of “fags.” But as he pondered an idea of striking originality took shape, which so delighted him with its simplicity that he immediately put it into practice.

Entering a hut, which, along with hundreds of others, Kitchener has caused to be built to protect the soldiers from the changes of weather, he called to attention the party of new recruits.

“Gentlemen,” he began, as he produced a highly-polished silver watch, “I have here a watch to sell. I already have a wristlet watch”—here he used the conventional lie—“so there is no use keeping this one. Now, what do you offer for it?” The question was addressed to no one in particular.

Save for cries of “a halfpenny” and “threepence,” no one appeared to be interested. But Mac wasn’t downhearted. Advancing farther into the hut, he held up his hand.

“We’ll raffle it, then,” he suggested, still feigning that he believed he would get a purchaser. “Here is a pack of cards.”

The cards were handed over, shuffled, and with the actions of an expert card player, a recruit deposited a card in front of each of the assembled men.

“Now, each man back his card, threepence all round, and the watch goes to the highest card.”

This was done with remarkable speed, the recruits had pocket-money in plenty, and the schemer now gathered in his shekels. The cards were then turned, and the fellow who had managed to win rushed off to his corner, exultantly bearing his prize. Mac departed.

Half an hour later Mac quietly slipped into the recruits’ hut, and going over to the man who had captured the watch, whispered:

“The man I got the watch from is wanting it. I’ll very likely get into a scrape if I don’t get it. I’ll give you a shilling for it.”

The recruit quickly jumped to the conclusion that Mac had stolen the watch, and not wishing to be connected in any way with stolen property, promptly handed it back.

As Mac went off with his watch to his own hut he muttered: “That’s raised the wind, anyway.”

EXCUSE FOR POOR SHOOTING

The other day some Scottish Territorials were at the rifle butts. One of the men, a tailor by trade, was making exceedingly bad practice, and missing the target every shot. At length the officer in command became angry, and inquired gruffly:

“Can you not see the target, sir? Surely you, as a tailor, must thread your own needle!”

“Oh, aye, I can see the target,” replied the Terrier, calmly, “an’ I can thread a needle as well; but wha the mischief ever tried to thread a needle at twa hunder yairds?”

CORRECT; GO TO THE HEAD

The schoolmaster wanted to know whether the boys had an understanding of the functions of a British Consulate.

“Supposing,” he began, framing his question in the likeliest way to arouse the interest of his hearers, “supposing some one took you up in an aeroplane, and after a long, exciting flight, dropped you down thousands of miles from home in a country quite foreign, what place would you seek out first of all?”

An eager hand was instantly uplifted.

“Well, Willie, what do you say?”

“Please, sir, the hospital.”

SELF-INTEREST PARAMOUNT

A senator was talking about the war. “Each side,” he said, “is declaring hotly now that it will never receive the foe within its hospitable borders again, and that after the war there will be no trading with the enemy forevermore.

“When we hear talk like that, let us smile skeptically, remembering the vain campaign of Wilberforce.

“When Wilberforce was fighting against slavery in London a shopkeeper put up a sign: ‘No goods made with slave-grown cotton sold here.’ But the man’s rival then put up another sign: ‘All our goods are made from cheap, slave-grown cotton.’

“This latter sign got all the trade, of course. If the first one hadn’t been taken down at once it would have driven its author into bankruptcy.”

WHY THEY WOULDN’T SHOOT

A correspondent sends to the “Manchester Guardian” this story, evidently from an ironical Swiss paper. A few soldiers belonging to the brass band of a regiment in garrison at Basle went to a certain café for refreshments. One of them sat down alone at a table. Later a civilian, a German, joined him, and the two began to talk war politics.

“Would you shoot the Germans if they invaded Switzerland?” asked the German.

“Oh, no, never!” exclaimed the soldier.

“Waiter, a pint of beer and a beefsteak with potatoes for this brave man,” ordered the civilian. “And your pals sitting at the next table—would they also not shoot the Germans if they tried to invade this country?”

“Oh, no, never!” retorted the Swiss.

“Waiter, a glass of beer for each of the soldiers at the next table!” ordered the civilian. And, addressing again the soldier, he asked: “Is this generally the view held in the Swiss army in regard to a possible German invasion? Are all the Swiss soldiers so Germanophil?”

“I don’t know,” replied the soldier.

“But why would you not shoot the Germans?”

“Because we belong to the band!”

SHOOK ALL OVER

She—“Tell me, when you were in the army were you cool in the hour of danger?”

He—“Cool? I actually shivered.”

THE ONLY HINDRANCE

Pat Molloy came in for his evening’s beverage, and paper in hand, as usual. The crowd kept quiet to hear the latest war news. Pat said the war had reached a crisis, and that there was only one obstacle between the Allied Forces and Berlin. His listeners were dumfounded, and one of them, recovering quicker than the others, asked:

“And what might that be, Pat?”

“Oh,” said Pat, emptying his glass; “it’s nothing but the Germany army.”

IRISH VS. GERMAN

The Irish Tommy, prisoner, was feeling very wroth with the destroyers of Louvain, when a German officer dashed by on what Paddy termed “a rare bit of horseflesh.”

“Faith, that’s an Irish horse,” said Paddy, and his eyes glinted maliciously at the Teutonic soldier, who had a fair knowledge of English, and at once took up the glove. They would probably have come to blows, in spite of Paddy’s precarious position, had not a compatriot of his proposed that whoever could tell the biggest lie might claim the horse for his country. Paddy forthwith began a tale which was one lie from beginning to end, and stopped triumphantly. Then his Teutonic opponent began, in slow, but correct, English:——

“There was once a German gentleman——”

“That settles it,” said Paddy, with a sigh of resignation; “the horse is a German one!”

WISE PRECAUTION

Rain was falling steadily as the weary cyclist plodded on through the mud. At last he spied a figure walking towards him through the gloom. Gladly he sprang off his machine, and asked the native:—

“How far off is the village of Poppleton?”

“Just ten miles the other way, sir,” was the reply.

“The other way!” exclaimed the cyclist. “But the last signpost I passed said it was in this direction.”

“Ah!” said the native, with a knowing grin, “but, ye see, we warped that there post round so as to fool those ’ere Zeppelins.”

A BLOODLESS BATTLE

The occasion was the regimental ball. The band was there, and the palms and the refreshment buffet and everything was lovely.

But in one corner, behind a beautiful green rampart of palms, the young lieutenant and the colonel’s daughter were trying to occupy the same chair, and were giving other evidence of the fact that their hearts had been pierced by some of Cupid’s darts.

Suddenly an intruder appeared—a fierce intruder in the uniformed personage of the young lady’s father. Instantly the chair was abandoned, and the youthful swain stood at attention.

“Sir,” he said, in sharp, staccato tones, “I have the honor to report an engagement, in which I have been entirely victorious. Now, sir, it merely remains for you to give your official sanction of the terms of surrender.”

AT A PARIS HOTEL

“My plate is damp.”

“Hush!” whispered his wife. “That’s your soup. They serve small portions in war time.”

THE LAST RESORT

Frau von Schmidt (of Berlin)—“Otto, where are we going for holidays this summer?”

Otto—“Well—er—there’s Turkey.”

CRUEL SPITE

Village Haberdasher—“Yew take it from me, sir, folk in our village be very spiteful agin the Germans. Why, Oi reckon Oi’ve sold fifty ’ankerchers wi’ Kitchener’s face on ’em!”

AN UNLOVED OFFICIAL

Actual extract from a sailor’s letter to his wife:

“Dear Jane,—I am sending you a postal order for 10s, which I hope you may get—but you may not—as this letter has to pass the Censor.”

EXTREMITY; MEANING FEET?

He—“I hear that you are knitting socks for the fighting soldiers.”

She—“Yes; man’s extremity is woman’s opportunity, you know.”

AS EVER

“Since the war began women have been taking the places of the men on the Paris street-cars.”

“Well, they’d do it here, but the men are too ill-mannered to get up.”

AN OLD JOKE WORKED OVER

A school teacher recently gave his pupils a lecture on patriotism. He pointed out the high motives which moved the Territorials to leave their homes and fight for their country.

The school teacher noticed that one boy did not pay attention to the instruction, and as a test question he asked him:

“What motives took the Territorials to the war?”

The boy was puzzled for a moment, then, remembering the public “send-off” to the local regiment at the railway station, he replied:

“Locomotives, sir.”

REASONABLE PREJUDICE

Softly the nurse smoothed the sufferer’s pillow. He had only been admitted that morning, and now he looked pleadingly up at the “ministering angel” who stood at his bedside.

“An’ phwat did yez say the docthor’s name was, nurse, dear?” he asked.

“Dr. Kilpatrick,” was the reply. “He’s the senior house surgeon.”

The sufferer winced, and pulled a wry face.

“That settles it,” he muttered, firmly. “That docthor won’t get no chance to operate on me.”

“Why not?” asked the nurse, in surprise. “He’s a very clever man.”

“That’s as may be,” the patient said again, his voice cold and strong. “But me name happens to be Patrick.”

WAR’S UNKNOWN HEROES

Some men, dressed in civilian clothes, gathered together in the smoking-room of the hotel, discussing the joys and sorrows of life at the Front.

“Well, I’ve been with the Army and had a very interesting time,” said one.

“Ever got really alone with the enemy?” asked another.

“Rather! I once took two of their officers.”

“Unaided?”

“Of course! And the very next day I took eight men!”

“All wounded, I expect,” sneered a listener. “You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

“Just a slight scratch, that’s all. And two days after I took a transport wagon, and followed up that by taking a big gun.”

“Sir,” said a disagreeable auditor, “I have seen some of the finest specimens of anything you can call to mind, but I wish to state that you are the biggest romancer that ever trod this earth.”

“Oh no, I am not that,” replied the hero; “but I am a photographer!”

THE RETORT JUVENILE

A well-informed miss of fourteen inquired of her brother, “What would you say if you met a German lady and she said, ‘Good morning, God punish England’?”

The boy quickly replied, “I’d say, ‘Don’t you think you’re very Hun-ladylike?’”

JUST TWO SHOTS APIECE

They are telling a story in Switzerland about what would happen if the Kaiser violated Swiss, as he has already violated Belgian, neutrality.

The Kaiser was amazed at a Swiss drill by the shooting of the Switzers, who all scored bull’s-eyes.

“Wonderful shots!” said the Kaiser to a Swiss general. “Wonderful shots!”

“And we have, your Majesty, 100,000 such shots in the Swiss army,” the general answered.

The Kaiser laughed, and in a joking way he said:

“But suppose I invaded you with 200,000 soldiers?”

“In that case, your Majesty,” said the other, “we should each of us fire twice.”

MISSED THE USUAL SIGNAL

A certain regiment stationed in Belfast was mustered in the Ormean Park for inspection, and were standing awaiting the arrival of their colonel. Presently the commanding officer was seen approaching on horseback, but when a few paces from the troops the horse (which had been hired for the day) stood stock-still, and refused to move.

The officer made desperate efforts to urge on his steed, but all to no purpose. Before long a group of bystanders encircled him, and one of them, a ragged urchin, suddenly cried out to his chum:—

“I say, Bill, run and ring the park bell; it’s a tramcar horse.”

This was enough for the colonel, who at once dismounted.

RIVERS IN THE WAR, NOW FAMOUS IN THE WORLD’S HISTORY

Rivers have always played a great and sometimes a decisive rôle in the great drama of war, and the colossal European struggle raging at the present moment is no exception to the rule. On the contrary, the greatest battle the world has ever seen, both by reason of its duration and the numbers engaged, is not unlikely to go down to history as the Battle of the Rivers. These are the Aisne, the Oise, and the Somme, all of which, during that interminable battle, literally ran with blood.

What a rôle, too, has the Meuse played in this war! Indeed, it may be safely said that this river literally saved the situation, for it was the difficulty of crossing it in the face of the fire of the Liége forts which caused that fortnight’s delay in the carrying out of the Kaiser’s programme which saved France, and perhaps eventually the British Empire. During that fortnight the waters of the Meuse were choked with the bodies of the slain.

The River Marne will ever be memorable because it was along the line of that river that the great battle—a battle which may later be regarded as one of the decisive battles of the war—took place, which turned the Germans back upon their long journey home. Tens of thousands on both sides were slain in attempts to cross and recross this stream.

The River Nethe, a tributary of the Scheldt, formed one of the main obstacles to the Germans in their great assault upon Antwerp. Time and time again the Germans succeeded in getting a pontoon bridge completed and came down to the river bank in solid masses to cross it. As they came every Belgian gun that could be turned upon the spot was concentrated upon them and they were blown away and the bridge destroyed, until the river literally ran with blood. Similar destructions of pontoon bridges burdened with their living freight of men and horses and guns have occurred on all the many rivers which this war has brought into the terrible limelight of battle.

A BITING RETORT

“Jones, the captain wants you, matey. Whatcher bin doin’?”

“It’s that dog!” ejaculated Private Jones, as he made ready to appear before his superior officer.

“Jones,” said that worthy, frowningly, “this gentleman complain that you have killed his dog.”

“A dastardly trick,” warmly interrupted the owner of the dog, “to kill a defenseless animal that would harm no one!”

“Not much defenseless about it,” chimed in the private, heatedly. “He bit pretty freely into my leg while I was on sentry duty, so I ran my bayonet into him.”

“Nonsense!” answered the owner, angrily. “He was such a docile creature. Why did you not defend yourself with the butt of your rifle?”

“Why didn’t he bite me with his tail?” asked Private Jones, humbly.

WE SUGGEST THIS TO ALL OF ’EM

A visitor to a West-end restaurant in London, being waited on by a particularly tall and fine-looking waiter with a foreign accent, asked the man his nationality.

“Oh, I am a Hungarian,” was the reply.

“How comes it, then, that a big, strong fellow like you is not in the firing line?” asked the visitor.

“Vell, sir, it’s like this,” replied the knight of the napkin, pointing to a brother waiter a few tables off; “you see that man? Vell, he’s a Serb, and we have vat you call paired.”

CAUSE FOR HOME-SICKNESS

The recruit walked into the barrack-room and inadvertently left the door open. An old soldier immediately yelled:—

“Shut the door, you fool! Where were you born—in a barn?”

The youngster closed the door, then, dropping down on his cot, buried his face in his hands and began to weep. The old soldier looked somewhat uncomfortable, and, rising, finally walked over to the weeper and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Look here, boy,” he said, “I didn’t intend to hurt your feelings. I just wanted the door closed.”

The weeper raised his head and grinned.

“Comrade,” he said, “I’m not crying because you hurt my feelings; but because you asked me if I was born in a barn. I was, and every time I hear an ass bray it makes me feel home-sick.”

REGULAR SEA DOG

A sailor belonging to one of His Majesty’s ships returned home unexpectedly.

“Why, what’s up, Jack?” asked his old father, when he saw him.

“Had to put back. Too rough,” said the Tar, jocularly.

“Too rough! Well, that’s yere modern navy, is it, with her quick-firers and torpedo-catchers? Too rough, eh? Why, Jack, my boy, I remembers when I was in the old Grampius—well, it was a gale, and it did blow. Well, it blowed so hard that the skipper gave orders to cut away the mast, and no sooner had the carpenter appeared on deck than the wind blowed the teeth clean out of his saw!”

“That’s nothing,” retorted Jack. “Only yesterday the wind happened to veer round and caught our guns end on and it blowed the breeches clean out of all of them.”

“Jack, my boy,” said the old man, “give me yer hand. Yer was cut out for the sea.”

PROFESSIONAL TREATMENT

Patient (to pretty nurse)—“Will you be my wife when I recover?”

Pretty Nurse—“Certainly.”

Patient—“Then you love me?”

Pretty Nurse—“Oh, no! That’s merely a part of my treatment. I must keep my patients cheerful. I promised this morning to run away with a married man who had lost both his legs.”

WAR NEWS IN THE PANTRY

“James!” she said, severely.

The butler looked up with a guilty flush.

“James,” she asked, “how is it that whenever I come into the pantry I find your work at sixes and sevens, and you sprawled out reading the war news?”

“Well, ma’am,” the butler answered, “I should say it was on account of them old rubber-sole shoes you’re always wearin’ about the house.”

DRAWING THE LINE

There was on Master Tommy Whiffles’s face, as he came in from play, an expression of unalloyed satisfaction. He bounced down on the one sound spring of the sofa with a sigh so indicative of profound content that his father was instantly filled with misgivings.

Half an hour afterwards Dabbs, from the next street, strode up the garden path and gave a pull at the front-door bell.

“If I catch your boy playing war games within a mile of my place again,” he announced, “I’ll trounce him till his hide looks like the paint on a barber’s pole.”

“Steady, old fellow, steady,” advised Whiffles, senior. “It’s very stupid for you to throw out rash threats. What boy wouldn’t play war games nowadays, eh? Boys will be boys, you know.”

“Let him keep a boy, then,” snarled Dabbs; “it’s when he imagines himself a Prussian army corps and my greenhouse a cathedral that I draw the line.”

NO UNION HOURS

The soldier was telling the workman about a battle that he had once been in that had lasted from eight o’clock in the morning until seven o’clock at night. His description was most graphic, and he became very enthusiastic as he lived through the stirring scenes again.

“There’s one thing I can’t understand about the story,” said the workman, slowly, when he had finished. “You say that the battle began at eight o’clock in the morning and lasted until seven o’clock at night?”

“Yes, that’s so,” was the reply.

“Then,” retorted the workman, with a puzzled air, “what I can’t make out is, how did you manage about your dinner-hour?”

MISSED SOMETHING

Green was a raw recruit, and in his ignorance of the ways of the army had committed some slight offense. When brought before the colonel, that worthy was pleased to let him off with only a sharp admonition. The facts of the case appeared in the regimental orders, and when Green read the account he rushed off to his sergeant breathless with indignation.

“Why, sergeant, it says in the orders that I was ‘discharged with an admonition,’” he complained. “An’ all I got was a good wiggin’. Some other fellow ’as been and kept that admonition and means to do me out of it. Now, I wants to know what it is, for I mean to have it. I don’t mean to be cheated out of anything!”

HIS MEANING IS PLAIN

The wounded Irish soldier was relating his adventures to the inquisitive old lady visitor.

“Afther we captured th’ hill, mum,” he said, “we hild it fur a whoile, but was evintually forced to retrate by th’ weight av numbers.”

“And were there many dead left on the hill?” she asked, anxiously.

“Dead!” he echoed. “Whoi, the whole hillsoide was simply aloive wid thim!”

SOONER OR LATER

Private —— was known to all his chums as “the early bird,” probably because it was an exact description of the very opposite to what he really was, for “the early bird” was always late, the last man to get out of bed at reveille and the last man on parade, and when his regiment sailed for France his chums declared that he was the last into the transport ship and the last out of it.

When his regiment was doing its spell in the trenches “the early bird” was sent for by his officer, and as he was creeping along the trench towards the dug-out a stray bullet caught him in the shoulder, just as he was outside the officer’s shelter.

After seeing that he wasn’t seriously wounded, the officer exclaimed, with a twinkle in his eye, “If you had just been a second earlier you would have missed that.”

“I would, sir,” returned Private ——, “or if I had been a second later it would have missed me.”

INTERRUPTED REPAST

A Territorial on guard one night was walking up and down his beat in a business-like way when one of his chums brought him some pudding, which he was very pleased to get.

He was sitting down in the sentry-box, eating it, when the general of his regiment came up to him in civilian clothes.

The Territorial carried on with his pudding, not noticing the general.

The general said:—

“Do you know who I am?”

“You’re the general’s servant?”

“No; guess again.”

“Well, you’re his butler?”

“No; guess again.”

“Maybe you are the general himself?”

“That’s who I am.”

“Oh, half a mo! Hold this pudding until I present arms.”

AN EXCELLENT BRIGADE

We heard of a man the other day who, being apparently of military age (though he was really over it), was confronted by the usual old gentleman in the usual railway carriage with the challenge why had he not joined.

“Oh, but I belong to the M. B. B.,” said the victim.

“M. B. B.? What’s that, sir?”

“The Mind My Own Business Brigade,” replied the other, resuming his reading of the paper.

WHY THEY THREW HIM IN AGAIN

A dentist in an English east-coast town was one day standing on the pier watching the evolutions of some warships, when he accidentally toppled into the water. Three recruits who were standing by immediately plunged in to the rescue and hauled him out.

On recovering his breath, he looked admiringly at his brave rescuers, and in a voice filled with deep gratitude he said:

“My brave fellows, how can I ever repay you for your gallantry? Just come along to my consulting rooms, and I’ll draw all the bloomin’ teeth out of your heads, and not charge you a penny.”

NOTHING TO FUSS ABOUT

At a “certain place in France” where the British and German trenches are within shouting distance of each other, the German soldiers were loudly singing one of their favorite war songs, “Gott mit uns! Gott mit uns!”

These “vain repetitions” palled on the Britons after a time, and at last an exasperated Jock arose in wrath and shouted across to the enemy, “Hae dune wi’ yer bletherin’! Ilka yin o’ us has got mittens tae, tho’ we dinna mak’ sic a fash aboot them.”

FOES AS FRIENDS

Undoubtedly the most amazing feature of the present war was the manner in which foe fraternized with foe on Christmas Day—when English and German exchanged presents, had Christmas trees in the trenches, and gave concerts for one another’s benefit. Nevertheless, these incidents are no new feature of warfare. Wellington had to cope with what he regarded as a very serious similar state of affairs during the Peninsular war. He issued the strictest orders and took the severest measures to stop it, making it punishable with death for any man to be found holding any form of intercourse with the enemy.

When in Portugal the English lines were so close to those of the army of Massena that the horses had to water at the same river which separated them, the soldiers came to a mutual understanding not to fire on one another when drawing water. This led to an exchange of gifts and finally to the amazing spectacle of English and French soldiers sitting round the same camp fires, sharing rations and playing cards.

It seems to be a common phenomenon of war that, however bitter the struggle, a feeling of friendship will spring up after a time between the troops in the front ranks if they are close to one another for any length of time. It was so in the Russo-Japanese war, and it seems to arise from a growing respect for one’s adversary in sharing common hardships and danger. National feeling gives way before the fellow-feeling for the man opposite, who, after all, is not responsible for the war, but only obeying orders.

As one paper said at the time of the incident in this present war, “The little tales of the Christmas truce in the trenches prove that the gospel of brotherhood is more powerful than the gospel of hate.”

STRICTLY OBEDIENT

Colonel Kemyss, of the 40th Regiment, was remarkable for the studied pomposity of his diction. One day, observing that a careless man in the ranks had a particularly dirty face, which appeared not to have been washed for a twelvemonth, he was exceedingly indignant at so gross a violation of military propriety.

“Take him,” said he to the corporal, who was an Irishman, “take the man and lave him in the waters of the Guadiana.”

After some time the corporal returned.

“What have you done with the man I sent with you?” inquired the colonel. Up flew the corporal’s right hand across the peak of his cap.

“Sure an’t plaise y’r honor, and didn’t y’r honor tell me to lave him in the river? And sure enough I left him in the river, and there he is now, according to y’r honor’s orders.”

NOT LIKELY

A Barbados plantation negro is reported to have said to his overseer:

“Massa, is it true that before the war the Kaiser sent a bag of rice to King George and told him, ‘King George, I’se got as many soldiers as there is rice in this bag,’ and that King George sent to the Kaiser a bottle of the hottest peppers that grows and tell him, ‘I only got as many soldiers as peppers in this bottle, but you just bite one of them and you’ll see how your soldiers will like ’em’?”

THE KAISER’S INCOME How His Money Is Invested

Thanks to the advice of financiers who, for obvious reasons, he admitted to his friendship, the Kaiser’s private fortune has increased to such an extent of late years that it was estimated a short time ago by the eminent German authority, Herr Rudolph Martin, that he is easily the richest man in Germany, having an annual income of five million dollars derived from possessions valued at approximately $100,000,000.

Apart from the Kaiser’s fortune, his son, the Crown Prince, has a separate income of $250,000, drawn from property valued at nearly $5,000,000, while the Kaiser’s brother, Prince Henry, enjoys some $150,000 a year on account of an estate worth two and a half million. Altogether the principal members of the Hohenzollern family own property valued at approximately $125,000,000.

The Kaiser’s fortune has been mainly built up by investments in many businesses. He has some very large holdings in the big German steamship lines, is extensively interested in the diamond-mine enterprises of German West Africa, owns forests and lands to the value of seventeen and a half millions, carries on a large lumber business, and has a horse-breeding establishment in Western Prussia which brings him in a handsome revenue. Furthermore, he has great financial interests in a municipal lager-beer brewery at Hanover, and founded an extensive pottery factory on his private estates at Cadinen.

Altogether the Kaiser owns about forty castles and country houses, valued at $10,000,000, and various property in Berlin, approximately worth $5,000,000. In seven different provinces he owns seventy-four estates, comprising close on half a million acres.

It is interesting to note that ever since Germany began to make preparations for a great war the Kaiser has been investing immense sums of money on the other side of the Atlantic. He is one of the largest landowners in the Western United States—not in his own name, of course—and owns a considerable section of property in the West of Canada. So notorious is the fact that it was at one time a standing joke at Vancouver that, although the Kaiser was a large owner of property in a certain district, he declined to join the local ratepayers’ association, which would have been materially assisted in its propaganda by the use of his name.

SOMETHING REPOSEFUL

Soldiers were called for, owing to the scarcity of civilians, to work the railway. The weary “Tommies” were lying in camp one night after a hard day’s work, when a sergeant called out:

“Any of you men want to put your names down as railway porters, drivers, stokers, half-boiled clerks, or for any other appointments connected with the railway?”

Silence, broken only by snores. Then one “Tommy” slowly raised his head and drowsily muttered:

“Put me down as a sleeper, sergeant.”

ENOUGH IS TOO MUCH

“Are you going to the Wallerby reception tonight?”

“No. The Twobbles will be there, so I declined my invitation.”

“Why do you object to the presence of the Twobbles?”

“I don’t object to their presence particularly, but I have already heard them tell the story of their escape from Berlin ten or twelve times, and I don’t feel equal to another recital.”

TELLING HIM ALL ABOUT IT

The recruits were going through their first course of musketry, and they were in charge of a full-blown second lieutenant, who was trying to show his authority, together with his great knowledge of musketry. Sauntering up to the latest recruit, he said:—

“See here, my man, this thing is a rifle; this is the barrel, this is the butt, and this is where you put the cartridge in.”

The recruit seemed to be taking it all in, so the officer, continuing, said:—

“You put the weapon to your shoulder; these little things on the barrel are called sights; then to fire you pull this little thing, which is called the trigger. Now smarten yourself up, and remember what I have told you, and, by the way, what trade did you follow before you enlisted?—a collier, I suppose.”

“No, sir,” came the reply. “I only worked as a gunsmith for the Government Small Arms Factory.”

THE ENGLISH LIKE THIS KIND

A little boy received a toy donkey as a birthday present.

“What are you going to call it?” asked his father.

“King George,” replied the boy.

“Oh, no,” said his father, “that would never do. That would be an insult to the King. Why not call it the Kaiser?”

“Because,” said the little boy, indignantly, “that would be an insult to my donkey.”

GAVE IT AWAY

A Scottish Territorial was having his first experience of night duty, and was feeling a little nervous. The password was “Discount.”

In the darkest of the small hours a black form suddenly stepped up to him.

“Wh-wh-who goes there?” he challenged.

“Friend,” was the reply.

“Advance, f-f-friend, and give the d-d-discount.”

A “SHIRT-SLEEVE GENERAL”

It was in South Africa that General French earned the title of the “shirt-sleeve General”—a sobriquet that conveys a subtle compliment from “Tommy’s” point of view. Actually French was often to be seen walking about in camp during his heavy marches in shirt-sleeves, writes Mr. Cecil Chisholm, in his biography of Sir John French.

One afternoon a correspondent rode up to the lines, and, seeing a soldier sitting on a bundle of hay, smoking a dilapidated-looking old briar pipe, asked where the General was.

“The old man is somewhere about,” coolly replied the soldier.

“Well, just hold my horse while I go and search for him.”

“Certainly, sir,” and the smoker rose and obediently took the bridle.

“Can you tell me where the General is?” inquired the correspondent of a staff-officer farther down the line.

“General French? Oh, he’s somewhere about. Why, there he is, holding that horse’s head!”

And the officer pointed directly to the smoker, still tranquilly pulling at his pipe and holding the horse. Needless to say, “Uncle French” and his men hugely enjoyed the correspondent’s awakening.

GRIN AND BEAR IT

“This war will go on and on,” said Mrs. Harry Payne Whitney, who has given a $250,000 field hospital to the belligerents.

“This war will go on and on,” she repeated, sadly, “and the side that is getting the worst of it will display the spirit of little Willie.

“Little Willie’s father, as he laid on the slipper, said:

“‘Willie, this hurts me more, far more, than it does you.’

“‘Then keep it up,’ said Willie, grinding his teeth. ‘Keep it up, dad. I can stand it.’”

CHANCE FOR A FREE RIDE

General Servant—“If you please, mum, may I have a ’oliday?”

Mistress—“Why, Jane, you have had a fortnight’s holiday these last twelve months already.”

Servant—“Yes, mum; but the baker tells me that the Government gents is sending generals out to France, their fares is paid by the taxes, and I thought the sea-trip would do me good, mum.”

KING ALBERT—CHAUFFEUR

The King of the Belgians, one of the most democratic of European monarchs, was spending some time in Switzerland in the summer when the following incident happened.

At Territet the King and Queen were motoring. His Majesty was driving, and there were no attendants. The Queen went into a shop to make some purchases. The King was standing by the car reading a newspaper, when an American woman came out of the shop, jumped into the car, which she mistook for a public conveyance, and bade the monarch to drive her quickly to her hotel.

“Certainly, madam,” said the King, and deposited the woman at the hotel.

Accounts vary as to whether the King accepted or did not accept any fare.

In the meantime the Queen had come out of the store and was surprised to find that her husband and the car were absent. However, they speedily returned, and their Majesties laughed over the story together.

TIRED AND CROSS

Two companies of the “Buffs” were marching along after a very tiring day, when a young staff officer galloped up to the captain in command of the party.

“Are you the West Riding?” he asked.

But before the captain had time to reply a gruff voice answered from the ranks, “No, we’re the Buffs—walking.”

TURKISH NAVAL EFFICIENCY

The acquisition of a brand-new Brazilian Dreadnaught by Turkey recalls the story of the Turkish admiral who had been newly appointed to the command of the Ægean squadron. He installed himself in the admiral’s quarters—which opened to the sternwalk—on board the new flagship one evening, and went to bed. Next morning he awoke and ordered full speed ahead. After a little delay the propeller began to revolve, but as it had not moved since the ship was sold to Turkey—at more than cost price by a power which had no use for it—it made a tremendous racket.

“Allah!” cried the admiral. “What in the name of the Prophet is this uproar?”

“That, Excellency, is the propeller,” replied the captain.

“Stop it, then!”

It was pointed out to the admiral that stopping the propeller resulted as a rule in the stopping of the ship likewise.

“Then take the thing off,” bellowed the naval autocrat, “and put it on the other end.”

ROUGH ON TOMMY

The mails from home had just been received by a certain regiment. Not only were there letters, but many parcels from relatives and friends at home for lucky soldiers. One of the Tommies received a large box addressed to himself, and with a triumphant yell he rushed off to his company’s lines and gathered them around him to share in the eagerly anticipated contents of his box.

“Smokes, lads!” he cried, as he undid the wrapping. “From the old man; I knows it. An’ there’s sure to be a bottle or two of Scotch.”

He opened the box, gave one look at the contents, and collapsed in a heap.

“What is it?” cried his comrades, pressing round.

“It’s from ole Auntie Mary,” groaned the disappointed warrior. “Bandages an’ ointment an’ embrocation an’ splints, an’ a book on ‘’Ow to be yer own Surgin’!”

NOT EXACTLY COMPLIMENTARY

The company marched so poorly and went through their drill so badly that the captain, who was of a somewhat excitable nature, shouted indignantly at the soldiers:—

“You knock-kneed, big-footed idiots, you are not worthy of being drilled by a captain. What you want is a rhinoceros to drill you, you wretched lot of donkeys.”

Then, sheathing his sword indignantly, he added, “Now, lieutenant, you take charge of them!”

THE QUEEN, LIEUTENANT

The sporty lieutenant, on being handed one of the mufflers so thoughtfully sent out to English soldiers at the Front by “Mary R.” representing the ladies of the Empire, murmured:—

“I thought I knew every single one of the Empire ladies, by sight at any rate; but dashed if I can remember ‘Mary R.’”

FINE WORK

The war bulletins, which used to announce the taking of provinces and army corps, announce now the taking of single trenches, or single farm-houses—they announce, like a football game, gains of a few yards.

It’s fine work, very fine work. It reminds one of the jockey who was a trifle overweight—only a trifle, mind; but this trifle was enough to disqualify him.

“James,” said his owner after the scales had told their tale, “is there nothing more you can do?”

“No, sir; nothin’.”

“Are you shaved and hair-cut?”

“Half an hour ago.”

“Nails?”

The jockey showed his nails. They were trimmed to the quick.

“You’d better get your tonsils cut, James.”

But this, too, had been done.

“Well, then, James,” said the owner, “there’s nothing for it but to have your appendix taken out. Hurry off to the hospital now, or you’ll be too late.”

NO CAUSE FOR FEAR

A company of Territorials were at the range. The usual marker had not turned up, but a deputy was soon found in the person of an old worthy well-known in the district who occasionally acted as substitute in such circumstances. The first round was about to be fired when the captain, looking towards the target, was almost stupefied to see the newly-engaged marker right in the line of fire.

“Stop firing!” he screeched, as he hastened to where the old man stood, calmly smoking. “You blithering idiot!” he yelled, as he approached. “Do you know you were within an ace of death just now?”

“Ich, aye,” was the reply. “Jist fire awa’. A’ve marked for your squad before.”

GIVE AND TAKE

A South African newspaper hears that much badinage by wireless passes between English officers at Luderitzbucht and the German officers at Windhuk. The other day, so the story runs, the O. C. German troops at Windhuk wirelessed down to a certain prominent officer:

“Stop your men playing football and teach them to drill instead; Kolmanskop will make a good parade ground.”

That night a reconnoitering party went out to Kolmanskop and killed four Germans and wounded another. Colonel Blank thereupon wirelessed to Windhuk:

“Took your advice; scored four goals and a try.”

FUN ON THE FIRING-LINE

The course of training for a recruit is not all drudgery. Hardly a day passes without some amusing incident happening. The following occurred a few weeks ago in a Territorial regiment.

The day’s programme included practice in passing messages from mouth to mouth all along the line. In the roar of a battle it is very necessary that each man should be able to pass on a message which could not be heard if the officer in charge called it out. The officer got the men in a firing position and whispered the following message to the man on the left flank:—

“Left half company commander to right half company commander—ammunition almost done; let us have more quickly,” and ordered the message to be passed to the right. In a few minutes he called up the right-flank man and asked for the message as he received it.

The reply was:—

“Ammunition all gone. God Save the King.”

There was very little order for a few minutes after that.

DOING HIS BIT

Recruiting Sergeant—“Whose are these strapping youths, and why aren’t they in the army?”

Farmer—“They be my sons, for sure.”

Recruiting Sergeant—“Good heavens, man! Aren’t you doing anything for your country?”

Farmer—“In coorse I am. I sends two eggs every week to the wounded soldiers at the horspital.”

WELCOME PRISONERS

A captain of Hussars gave a dinner to the men of his squadron the night before they left for the front.

“Now, my lads,” he said, “treat this dinner as you will the enemy.”

And they set to with a will.

After dinner he discovered one of the men stowing away bottles of champagne into a bag, and, highly indignant, he demanded to know what he meant by such conduct.

“I’m only obeying orders, sir,” said the man.

“Obeying orders!” roared the captain; “what do you mean, sir?”

“You told us to treat the dinner like the enemy, sir, and when we meet the enemy, sir, those we don’t kill we take prisoners.”

HE KNEW THE ANSWER

One of the best stories of regimental life told by General Sir Archibald Hunter, the commander of England’s third new army, concerns a certain “Tommy” who was more noted for his wit than his scholarship. The man’s grammar and spelling were simply awful, and Sir Archibald was trying to teach him the King’s English.

“I don’t believe you know what w-o-m-a-n spells,” said he to the uneducated soldier on one occasion.

“Trouble as a rule, sir,” replied “Tommy,” with a grin.

Hunter was so amused that he was quite unable to reprimand the man for his “cheek.”

A JOKE IN THE TRENCHES

“Can anny av yer tell me why the Scots are the most humane sojers at the front?” asked the Irish sergeant, as he set light to his pipe.

“We give it up,” came the ready response from the boys just returned from the trenches.

“Why, it’s bekase they always carry their kilt aff the field.”

HE KNEW WHERE IT WAS

The drill instructor passed his hand wearily across his forehead. He had been breaking in some raw recruits and instructing them in the elements of company drill.

The majority were intelligent fellows, and found no difficulty in obeying his instructions; but one, in particular, did not seem able to understand even a simple order.

At last, losing his temper, the drill instructor determined to bring him to his senses by holding him up to ridicule. Calling him to the front he proceeded to put him through his paces.

“Eyes front!” he roared.

To everybody’s astonishment the recruit gazed absent-mindedly about him.

“Do you mean to say,” bellowed the instructor, “that you do not know where your front is?”

“Yes, I know, sir,” he replied.

“Well, then, where is it?” demanded the instructor.

“Please, sir,” he faltered, “it’s gone to the laundry.”

SUPERIOR MARKSMANSHIP

Pat was a witty young recruit, who was taking instruction in marksmanship. The squad had finished firing. Pat was brought to task for his poor shooting, and told that he must do better at the next distance; there were to be seven rounds of quick firing.

“Now, Pat,” the sergeant told him, “fire at target number five.”

Pat banged away, and hit target number four seven times in succession.

“What target did you aim at?” asked the irate officer.

“Number five sor,” answered Pat.

“And you have hit number four every time.”

“Bedad, sor,” retorted Pat, “that would be a grand thing in war. Sure, I might aim at a private and hit a gin’ral!”

NOT A THIRST IN THE LOT

A soldier, charged with being drunk and disorderly, mentioned, in extenuation of his offense, the fact that he had been compelled to travel up from camp in very bad company.

“What sort of company?” asked the magistrate.

“A lot of teetotallers!” was the startling response.

“Do you mean to say teetotallers are bad company?” thundered the magistrate. “I think they are the best company for such as you!”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sor,” answered the prisoner, “ye’re wrong, for I had a bottle of whisky and I had to drink it all mesel’.”

HIS SKIRTS CLEAR

A sturdy little Lancashire lad went to a recruiting station to enlist.

He was much disappointed when the officer told him he was too small and too young.

“Can’t you find me some job in th’ army what I am big enough for?” anxiously asked the lad.

“No, I can’t, I’m sorry to say,” replied the officer.

As the lad turned sorrowfully away he said:

“Well, don’t blame me if th’ bloomin’ Germans lick o’ t’ lot on yo’; that’s all!”

SHEEP AND GOATS

Life in the new Army teaches a man to look after himself. This is especially true of the larger camps, and the rule appears to be that “they shall take who have the power and they shall keep who can.”

A story illustrative of this is told of one of the Yorkshire regiments now in training. The cold weather had led some of the men to forage for extra blankets one night, and when next morning they were warned that the colonel was coming round for kit inspection they were too busy cleaning and preparing to put matters right again. The result was that when the men paraded some of them had three or four blankets while others had no blanket at all.

The colonel noticed this in his inspection, but said no word until he had been wholly round. Then, drawing himself up in front of the men, he thundered:—

“Ahem, major, one-half the regiment are simple fools, and the other half are bloomin’ thieves.”

JOGGING HIS MEMORY

Readers of the War news who have some difficulty in remembering where the Falkland Islands are may be helped by the recollection of one of Ian Maclaren’s stories. After a disaster to an emigrant ship many years ago, some of the survivors reached those islands. When the news came home the minister of a Scottish church to which some of the emigrants had belonged prayed thus:—

“Oh, Lord, we pray Thee to be with our brethren, stranded in the Falkland Islands, which, as Thou knowest, are situated in the South Atlantic Ocean.”

WILLING TO COMPROMISE

“Well, Tom, what d’ye think o’ this prohibition business?”

“We ought to do like France and Russia.”

“You’re givin’ it all up, then?”

“No; France is givin’ up absent and Russia’s givin’ up vodka. So I’m not goin’ to touch absent or vodka till peace comes. Give me beer.”

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.”