Page:Punch Vol 148.djvu/323

The Belgian army stood on the top of a mound brandishing its trusty pinewood blade. The rabble of Germans, recovered from one rebuff, was gathering forces for another charge. The Belgian army changed its sword from the right to the left hand, drew out an imaginary watch, and consulted it severely.

Its defiant voice rang out through the sharp air. "I'll give you," it cried―"I'll give you ten minutes to clear out of Belgium."

The dramatic hush after this ultimatum was broken by the hurried clamour of the school bell. Allies and enemy alike showed a jumble of red knees and flying heels as they rushed schoolwards across the field.

The Mistress paused on the way to her desk.

"Take your slates," said she, "and with very good writing and very good spelling tell me what you are going to be when you grow up. Even betting on Frenches and Jellicoes," she murmured as she sat down.

A busy silence fell on the schoolroom. The open fire crackled cheerily and warmed away the circles of frosty air each little combatant had carried in with him. Pencils scraped, or were sucked audibly as a help to intellectual wrestling. Bobby―the army of the Belgians―had rubbed out his beginning three times with a wet and grubby forefinger, and was squeaking along the dark wake in a fourth attempt. Spelling was no trouble to him. A difficulty is not a difficulty if you sternly refuse to recognise it as such; but he had worries not unconnected with the shape of the more knobbly letters.

The voice of the Mistress broke the silence. "Boys, stop writing; stand and turn your slates."

The little line of boys stood, slates held firmly forward to be read. The Mistress went slowly along. Outwardly she marked with thin chalk and talked of spelling and capitals and suchlike mysteries. Inwardly, she kept count. One small finger of the left hand was tightly folded in for each Admiral, while the Generals, Lance-Corporals and Field-Marshals were counted with the right. At the end of the line five fingers of each hand were firmly doubled in and it was difficult to hold the chalk.

"All square," said the Mistress softly, "and one to go. Bobby for the casting vote."

Bobby's slate was still turned towards him. With infinite pains and much puffing he was putting the final touches to his treatise.

"Come, Bobby," said the Mistress, with interest, "are you a brave defender too?"

"Yes,m," said Bobby.

"What is it with you? Land or sea? A soldier?"

"Yes'm," said Bobby, beaming.

The chalk, held in her right hand, snapped.

"Well, she said, "is it a Captain? or a General? or"―with awe, as the vision of a burly three-striper, much adored by the boys, crossed her mind―"can it be a Sergeant, Bobby?"

For rank Bobby cared nothing. A soldier, to him, was a man who stood against fearful odds, Uhlans and things, and beat back the rascally foe. One word, heard often of late, had come in his mind to stand for this. He had IT in his essay.

"Come, let me see," said the Mistress.

Proudly he turned the slate. Bobby's essay ran clear through the smudges of much strife―

"Im goin to be a Beljum."

Sandy (member of a martial family, returning from tea with some friends of a like age). "I'm glad I took my gun, Mother. Jack and Mollie haven't a single weapon in the place. Why, you wouldn't know there was a war on!"

An Oxford correspondent kindly sends us the following extract from the catalogue of Sir Arthur Evans' Cretan Monographs:―

"Erratum.―Page 17, note 1: for 'sky-totes' read 'rhytons.'"

We are sorry that Sir Arthur thought it necessary to part with "skytotes"; it is just the short word we have been wanted for aeroplanes.