THE NEXT WAR.
Reading edition
(Fragment from a Romance of the Future.)
The successful General, after winning the great victory, acted with decision. He cut all the telegraph wires with his own hands, until there was but one left in the camp—that which had its outlet in his own tent. He called for the special correspondents. They came reluctantly, writing in their note-books as they approached him.
"Gentlemen," said he, with polite severity, "I have no wish to deal harshly with the Press. I am fully aware of the services it does to the country. But, gentlemen, I have a duty to perform. I cannot allow you to communicate to your respective editors the glorious result of this day's fighting. For a couple of hours you must be satisfied to restrain your impatience."
"It will yet be in time for the five o'clock edition," murmured one of the scribes.
"And I shall be able to get it into the Special," murmured another.
Then the General bowed and retired to his own tent. At last he was alone. Over the receiver to the telephone was a board inscribed with various numbers, with names attached thereto. He saw that 114 stood for "Wife," 12,017 for "Mother-in-law," and 10 for "Junior United Service Club." But he selected none of these.
"No. 7," he cried, suddenly applying his lips to the receiver and ringing up, "are you there?"
"Why, certainly; what shall I do?"
"Why, buy 30,000 Consols for me," was the prompt reply. And then the General a few minutes later added, "Have you done it?"
"I have—for the next account."
And then the warrior smiled and released the Press-men. Nay, more, he ordered the telegraph wires to be repaired. All was joy and satisfaction. The glorious news was flashed in a thousand different directions. The name of the general received immediate immortality.
And the great commander was more than satisfied. His fortune was assured. Before allowing the news to be spread abroad he had taken the precaution to do a preliminary deal with his stockbroker!
AN ALPINE RAILWAY. Abominable work of man, Defacing nature where he can With engineering; On plain or hill he never fails To run his execrable rails; Coals, dirt, smoke, passengers and mails, At once appearing. To Alpine summits daily go The locomotives to and fro. What desecration! Where playful kids once blithely skipped, Where rustic goatherds gaily tripped, Where clumsy climbers sometimes slipped, He builds a station. Up there, where once upon a time Determined mountaineers would climb To some far châlet; Up there, above the carved wood toys, Above the beggars, and the boys Who play the Ranz des Vaches—such noise Down in the Thal, eh? Up there at sunset, rosy red, And sunrise—if you're out of bed— You see the summit, Majestic, high above the vale. It is not difficult to scale— The fattest folk can go by rail To overcome it. For nothing, one may often hear, Is sacred to the engineer; He's much too clever. Well, I must hurry on again, That mountain summit to attain, Good-bye. I'm going by the train. I climb it? Never!
"FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD."
Tourist from London (to young local Minister). "How quiet and peaceful it seems here!"
Minister. "Eh, Friend, it seems peacefu'. Wha wad think we were within Seven Miles o' Peebles!"
AN ANGLO-RUSSIAN ECHO. [At Baku, on the Caspian, a Society has been formed to abolish hand-shaking and kissing, on the ground that bacilli are propagated by such personal contact. The ladies, however, have protested against this to the Governor-General. Daily Telegraph. Baku is a place that is pretty well Grundyfied, Where the good folks have all frolic and fun defied, Where I'd be shunned, if I'd Play at Whit-Mondayfied Games such as "Catch-can" and Kiss-in-the-ring! For the greybeards, it seems, of this naptha-metropolis (Really, their reason about to o'ertopple is) All o'er the shop'll hiss, Hollering, "Stop! Police! Hi, there! hand-shaking the mischief will bring!" And kissing, they think, only leads to diphtheria— Well, I should say, such a dread of bacteria Quite beyond query, amounts to hysteria! No, it won't "wash"—they don't either, I fear! But Sonia and Olga and Vera are mutinous, Rightly, I think, at such nonsense o'erscrutinous. "This rot take root in us? No, keep salutin' us!" Echo our Mabels and Mauds over here!