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    Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, October 21, 1914
    Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, October 21, 1914
    Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, October 21, 1914
    Ebook102 pages53 minutes

    Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, October 21, 1914

    By Archive Classics

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 26, 2013
    Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, October 21, 1914

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      Book preview

      Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, October 21, 1914 - Archive Classics

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 147,

      October 21, 1914, by Various

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

      Title: Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, October 21, 1914

      Author: Various

      Release Date: March 21, 2009 [EBook #28382]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OCTOBER 21, 1914 ***

      Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Neville Allen,

      Malcolm Farmer and the Online Distributed Proofreading

      Team at http://www.pgdp.net

      PUNCH,

      OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

      VOLUME 147.

      OCTOBER 21, 1914.

      The following incident has been forwarded by the Special Constable himself, but the Authorities will not permit the publication of his actual portrait:—

      Small Boy (suddenly noticing Special Constable). Look Aht! Copper!

      Girl. Where?

      Boy. There—agin Fence.

      Girl. Garn, Silly—frightenin' me!

      CHARIVARIA.

      The King, says The Manchester Courier, has returned all his German Orders. So much for the taunt that Britain's object in taking part in the War was to pick up German orders.

      We hear that, in addition to lowering the lights at night, the authorities intend, in order to confuse the enemy, to alter the names of some of our thoroughfares, and a start is to be made with Park Lane, which is to be changed to Petticoat Lane.

      The Kaiser is reported to have received a nice letter from his old friend Abdul (the D—— d), pointing out that it is the fate of some kind and gentle souls to be misunderstood.

      Matches, it is stated, are required at the front—to put an end, we believe, to Tommy Atkins' reckless habit of lighting his cigarette by applying it to the burning fuse of a bomb.

      A Sikh non-commissioned officer has, according to The Central News, delivered himself of the following saying:—Power is to kings, but time belongs to the gods. The Indians know how to wait. This will no doubt call forth an indignant rejoinder from the Teutonic Waiters' Association.

      Property insured in London is valued at £1,320,000,000, according to an announcement made by Lord Peel last week. One can almost hear the Kaiser smacking his lips.

      At last the authorities have acted, and the premises of a German firm with concrete foundations have been raided. This bears out the promise of certain high officials who declared that they would take action when a concrete example was brought to their notice.

      The official Eye-Witness in a recent despatch tells us how a British subaltern saw, from a wood, an unsuspecting German soldier patrolling the road. Not caring to shoot his man in cold blood, he gave him a ferocious kick from behind, at which the startled German ran away with a yell. This subaltern certainly ought to have figured in Boots' Roll of Honour which was published last week.

      Why, it is being asked, do not the French retaliate for the damage done by the Germans to their cathedrals and drop bombs on Berlin? The persons who put this question have evidently never seen Berlin or they would know that you cannot damage its architecture if you try.

      The Kaiser has announced his intention of eating his Christmas dinner in London. We trust that Mr. McKenna and his men will see to it that His Majesty will, anyhow, find no mince pies here. [Note.—Mince pies should be pronounced mean spies. This greatly improves the paragraph.]

      According to one report which reaches us the Kaiser is now beginning to quibble. He has pointed out that, when he said he would eat his Christmas dinner at Buckingham Palace, he did not mention which Christmas.

      TO THE ENEMY, ON HIS ACHIEVEMENT.

      Now wanes the third moon since your conquering host

      Was to have laid our weakling army low,

      And walked through France at will. For that loud boast

      What have you got to show?

      A bomb that chipped a tower of Nôtre Dame,

      Leaving its mark like trippers' knives that scar

      The haunts of beauty—that's the best réclame

      You have achieved so far.

      Paris, that through her humbled Triumph-Arch

      Was doomed to see you tread your fathers' tracks—

      Paris, your goal, now lies a six days' march

      Behind your homing backs.

      Pressed to the borders where you lately passed

      Bulging with insolence and fat with pride,

      You stake your all upon a desperate cast

      To

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