Page:Punch Vol 148.djvu/463
"I see Mr. Basil be home again, Miss. I wondee if he be in the same regiment as my son. It be called 'The British Expeditionary Force'!"
PUNCH IN HAMPSTEAD.
Of gruesome placards and the cry
With which the urban newsboy charms
Odd pence from passers-by—
Through Hampstead town at eve I sped,
And sudden heard the pan-pipes' note
Sound cheerily ahead.
There came an eager urchin throng
Shouting for joy that Punch had come
With frolic, jest and song.
A respite from the current care,
Hoping that War's unhappy din
Would find no echo there.
I saw the all-pervading Hun
Disfigure each remembered scene
And spoil the homely fun.
Burlesqued von Turpitz in his lair;
Cast from his old estate, the clown
Appeared as Wilhelm's heir.
He too was changed, and though he wore
The same red flannel tongue his smile
Was sadder than of yore.
A quaint embodiment of fate,
Punch stirred the patriot reptile's rage
By calling him U 8.
Fell flat and lifeless to the ground;
With heavy heart I crept away
Before the hat came round.
THE SPORPOT.
I am not sure if that is how they spell it in Belgium, but that is how we mean to spell it in Crashie Howe. We have reason to be grateful to our refugees for introducing this admirable little implement. For the Sporpot has come to stay.
The first I heard of it was from Louis when he went to work in the Minister's garden. He made good wages there for a week or two, and the thing was rather on his conscience. He came to me to discuss the point. Should this money be paid to go against the cost of keeping his family, or should he spend it? But before I could reply a perfect compromise occurred to him. He would put it in his Sporpot. It seemed to be an excellent arrangement.
There is nothing new in principle about the Sporpot. Most of us began life with something of the sort in our possession. But it always had a key, and that was where it failed. A Sporpot with a key is no better than a ship with a leak. It must be unrelenting, imporous, adamant, without compromise or saving clause or loophole or back-door. It is the absolute cul-de-sac. Once you have dropped in your coin through the slit at the top it should be as irrevocable as yesterday. Of course the thing can be broken open, but no one would care to have any dealings with the sort of man who would break open his Sporpot. Unless, of course, he can prove it full.
As the proper emblem of a thrifty people the Sporpot seems to be quite domesticated in Belgium, as much a member of the household as the dresser or the clock. And the Belgian's first important undertaking, after he settled among us, and as soon as he had satisfied his more urgent needs—such as catching chaffinches and making cages for them and hanging them up outside the door—was to establish a Sporpot. And there could be no more fit companion for the exile. It is a slender thread that still holds him to Belgium, far away. It keeps him looking forward, for it is at least a beginning—all he can do in these long months of waiting. Like the little tag-end of Belgian soil that is still defended by the Allied Army, it is at least a jumping-off place for the New Start.
May every Sporpot be full (and ripe for the hatchet) on the Day!