Page:Punch Vol 148.djvu/419

"Would ye believe it, Docthor," said my medical orderly, Daniel O'Farrell, the other day, "but a hungry German walked into this very village this mornin' to surrinder himself widout his hilmut? 'Go back and fetch it, ye owdacious Teuton,' says I. 'There's Mary Delaney sittin' at home somewheres in Cork wid the fixed determination niver to marry me until I sind along to her a German hilmut for to hang up in the parlour window wid a pot of ferns in it. Go back, ye Hun, and if ye've any decent feelin' don't come here again widout it.'"

To the "Halt! Who comes there?" of the sentry outside my billet the other night, I heard Dan saying, "Frind it is, but only in the rigimental sense of the word, Peter Murphy, until ye widraw the expression ye used about me yisterday." This in reference to an occasion at the village estaminet when Murphy had introduced him to a gunner friend of his as "the regimental goat."

But it is in the trenches that one sees O'Farrell at his best. As he crawls behind me with the medical panier on his back he keeps up a lively whispering, especially when we happen to be working our way behind those of his more intimate friends whose domestic foibles afford him an opening.

"It's no use, Patrick, annyone can see ye're used to nursin' twins by the way ye handle your rifle."

"Is it composin' a Hymn of Hate to your landlord, ye are, Mike? Shure it's a blessin' ye've no rint to pay for the trinch, or it's sorra a week ye'd be out here."

Or to Riley, a notoriously henpecked man in domestic life: "Enjoyin' the quiet, Riley? Well, well, no man deserves a restful day's shellin' more than ye do."

Suddenly a "Jack Johnson" explodes with a terrific din on a sand-hill in front of our line. The somewhat strained silence that follows is broken by a cheerful and familiar voice:—

"A more wasteful and extravagant way of shootin' small game I niver did see before, Sorr. Though one mustn't be hard on the craythurs, seein' that they might aisily have mishtaken the runnin' of the rabbit for an ambulance movin' in the distance."

Just at present he is in his billet teaching a local farmer's daughter to sing "Kathleen Mavourneen." The result is not melodious, but they are both exceedingly happy, and as I came by the window I heard his encouragement:—

"Whin ye can say 'Oireland' widout makin' a face over it, believe me, ye'll be well on the way to shpakin' English."

The War would be a much sadder thing to me without O'Farrell.

"What further part Paignton is destined to play in the Great War will be made clear as time goes on. There never was, and we confidently believe never will be, a shadow of doubt of the splendid loyalty of the town, and whatever the sacrifices many have to make—and they are many and diversified—all will be borne with but one object and one determination, which is to see the war through to the bitter end 'with no complaining in our sheets.'"—Paignton Observer.

If the Kaiser expects to see Paignton in a white sheet he will be disappointed.

"Wanted, a Two-Legged Horse, not less than 16 hands.—Apply, Borough Surveyor, Tamworth."—Tamworth Herald.

Unless the animal is wanted for the local museum we should suggest that one with more legs, even if fewer hands, would be preferable.