Volume 152 — JOLLYMOUSE

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In what I will particularise as the —— area of the War zone, there is a small village-by-a-stream where Generals stride about the narrow streets or whirl through them in gigantic cars, and guards at every corner clank and turn out umpty times a day. Down in the hollow the stream by the village laughs placidly along, mocking at the Great War, but I doubt if the Generals have much time to listen to it, for the village-by-the-stream is a Corps Headquarters.

However the Doctor led us (which includes the War Babe and James the Acting Adjutant) to the village-by-the-stream, where, just across the stone bridge, he indicated on the wall of a house the legend:

RESTAURANT FOR OFFICERS.

TEA, COFFEE, CHAMPAGNE AND ALL SUCH ARTICLE IS SELL HERE.

"Tea," he said feelingly, "and there will be china cups and thin bread-and-butter, and real milk and come along in."

It was rather a composite restaurant. There was a glassed-in balcony with tables and chairs; and all around there were puttees, handkerchiefs, paper-weights, inkstands, wrist-watches and electric torches. There were loose-leaved pocket diaries of abominable ingenuity (irresistible to Adjutants); collars and ties to clothe the neck of man, and soap to wash it withal. Hair lotions, safety-razors, pâté de foie gras, sponges and writing-pads jostled each other on the shelves. Walking-sticks and bottles of champagne lay in profusion on the floor. It was less of a restaurant than an emporium, but the Doctor sat down contentedly and rang the bell; and the War Babe threw out battle patrols to reconnoitre the position.

He passed unscathed through the barrage of sticks and diaries; evaded skilfully the indirect fire of electric torches; reached his first objective among the soap-boxes, and there met his fate.

"Doctor," he demanded suddenly, "what's 'savon jollymouse'?"

"Savon," the doctor began didactically, "is a preparation of fatty acids saponified with alkali. It is principally manufactured from coker-nut oil, although other similar, if less offensive, substances are sometimes employed. In the English tongue it is known as 'soap,' and——"

"You idiot," said the War Babe amiably, "I know what 'savon' is. But what's a 'jollymouse'?"

"A rodent," replied the Doctor—"a small rodent in a state of mental exhilaration or merriment."

"Rats."

"Yes, the same definition would also apply to rats. Jolly rats, that is to say."

"You're very bright to-day, Doctor," said the War Babe, "but it doesn't happen to be that kind of mouse at all. It's j-o-l-i, jolly; m-o-u-s-s-e——"

"Why didn't you say that before? That's quite different. It's pronounced moose—zholimoose."

The War Babe sniffed.

"I don't believe you know what it means any more than I do."

"Son of Mars," the Doctor answered gravely, "you are measuring my ignorance by your own—a great mistake. As a matter of fact that word is put on the packet simply to deceive unwary Babes. It has nothing whatever to do with soap."

"Well, since you know so much," said the War Babe, closing with his opponent, "what is a jollymouse or whatever you call it?"

"A zholimoose, my dear," the Doctor began, "is very hard to describe and has to be seen to be believed. A War Babe would probably not recognise one if he saw it. To give you a rough idea, however, it is an airy Will-o'-the-wispish——"

The bell had done its work at last, and there suddenly entered by an inner door a fair-haired, fair-skinned French girl almost too pretty to be real. The Doctor paused with his eyes on her and then his face lit up with triumph.

"Gentlemen," he said, in a low vibrating tone, "behold the zholimoose. Hush. It will probably come closer if you don't frighten it."

"Have you got the landing-net?" whispered James hoarsely.

"Yes. And the killing bottle. It's this War Babe I'm afraid of. He's sure to scare it. Don't glare at her like that, War Babe. Pretend you're a soap-box."

She hovered on the threshold. It seemed touch and go... and then the War Babe broke the ice in his choicest French.

"Mademoiselle!"

"Messieurs!" She came daintily forward and looked inquiries at us all.

"Tay avec—er bread-and-butter, si-vooplay," the Doctor ground out in his execrable lingo. "And—er—I never can remember the French for milk."

"Lait?" I suggested.

"That's it. Now, Mademoiselle-lay. But not canned stuff. Vray lay."

Her eyes grew wider and wider at this strange jargon.

"Comment, M'sieur?"

"Vray lay."

"I suppose you mean lait an naturel," growled James.

"Du lait frais," I hazarded.

"Ah. Comprends. C'est triste. Pas de lait frais. Les hôpitaux prennent tout."

"No milk?" wailed the Doctor. He looked fixedly at the table and one saw from the movement of his lips that he was mustering his forces for another plunge into the language. Meanwhile the War Babe, whose eyes had not left the girl's face, ventured again on the thin ice of speech.

"Mademoiselle," he began hesitatingly.

"Oui, M'sieur." She turned to him, the picture of rapt attention.

"Où est la jollymouse—moose, I mean?"

She looked from one to another of us in perplexity.

"Qu'est ce qu'il veut dire?" she asked.

"Il veut voir la jolimousse," we explained, and the War Babe held out the soap-box, pointing with expressive pantomime to the words on it. Her eyes twinkled appreciatively.

"Nous—nous supposerons que—vous êtes—la jolimouse," said the War Babe slowly, choosing his words with care.

"Bien sûr," James added affirmatively.

"Moi?" She rippled with laughter. "Oh non. Attendez, Messieurs. Ouait one mineet." She flitted through the door like some beautiful butterfly, and in a moment returned with the smallest, softest, warmest lump of blue-grey fur nestling against her. It was a tiny blue Persian kitten.

"Voilà!" she said, caressing it tenderly, "la jolimousse." She handed it gravely to the War Babe, who received it with almost reverend care.

It seems perhaps a little worldly to return to the subject of tea, but doctors are worldly creatures. However, at this point the doom of the gods descended, for there was no tea to be obtained, only coffee; no bread-and-butter, only little hard biscuits; and the cups, though certainly china, were but little larger than liqueur-glasses. But one of us at least was impervious to disappointments. The War Babe sat silently, with the kitten in his lap, like a seer of visions, until, just as we were about to leave, an impulse suddenly galvanized him. "I'll pay," he said, and marched into the inner room....

Victim. "CONFOUND YOUR DOG, MADAM! IT'S NEARLY BITTEN A PIECE OUT OF MY LEG."

Owner (distressed). "I AM TRULY SORRY, SIR. NAUGHTY LITTLE DAPHNE! AFTER ALL MY EFFORTS TO MAKE WEDNESDAY YOUR MEATLESS DAY."

DOMESTIC STRATEGY.

Mr. Meanly. My dear, I see that The People's Adviser is inviting its readers to send details of their individual food reforms for publication. Pour encourager les autres. Just tell me what our rules are.

Mrs. Meanly. Certainly, dear. We have meat only on two days a week; potatoes only on two days a week (and so on).

Mr. Meanly. Good. I will write a letter. And then the day after it appears in print you might send out invitations to dinner. There are a lot of arrears to make up and we'll clear them off now. Say a series of three parties.

Mrs. Meanly. But, dear, ought we to do it in war-time?

Mr. Meanly. After the publication of our system of meals, it will be quite safe to send the invitations, my love.

A CURRENT EVENT.

Years ago Mr. Punch, in a moment of inspiration (I wrote the article myself), suggested that some benevolent American millionaire might alter the course of the Gulf Stream so that it flowed right round these islands. In the eye of imagination he saw date palms bordering the Strand, costers sitting under their own banana trees, and stately cavalcades of camels bearing wearied City men to Balham or Putney. (Unhappily he could not look so far into the future as to forecast the allotment holders returning home laden with sugar-canes).

Now a writer in The Times suggests that the chill of the present season is due to the effect of the Panama Canal on the Gulf Stream. This is an insidious attempt to make bad blood between ourselves and our new allies. We could only feel the bitterest hostility towards anyone in any way responsible for the present season. Why, this spring has spread such devastation through the land that writers of nature notes have been unable to pay their plumbers' bills.

But while we repudiate the implication of American responsibility we think it well to be absolutely on the safe side; so we suggest that it would be a friendly act, and consonant with the new spirit of alliance, if she would kindly keep the Panama Canal plugged for the next few weeks. One would like to make sure of hearing the cuckoo in Victory Year.

"Only ninety-two pigs came to Vienna's Easter market, of which ninety-four were allotted to hospitals."—Daily Mail.

The two extra ones, it is understood, came from HINDENBURG'S "strategic reserve."

"It is expected that an official announcement will shortly be made of a scheme which will put practically the whole of the topmaking industry of Bradford at the disposal of the Government."—Daily Telegraph.

That ought to make things hum.

"Napoleon was desolated were he left in the same room with a cat ... but he was not in the least afraid of being alone in the same room with Anne of Austria, whose claws were of a far more formidable capacity."—West Australian.

NAPOLEON'S intrepidity may have been due to his knowledge that ANNE of Austria died about a century before he was born.

"MY POOR REGINALD IS IN 'ORSPITAL WITH RHEUMATICS IN HIS LEGS. THE SCOTCH COSTUME, YOU KNOW."