Page:Punch Vol 148.djvu/522
soul I believe they're right, though it may sound like swanking to say so. My head's in pigeon-holes, you know. I can keep things clear and distinct. I never forget. Well, up to the present I've done nothing for the country in its time of stress. When I say nothing, I don't exactly mean that. A façon de parler, don't you know? But nothing very practical. I've written a cheque or two, of course, and housed some Belgians, poor devils! But I've done nothing with myself; I haven't put my own peculiar talent into it. But now I feel that the time's come; and with this organising gift of mine, of which my friends speak so highly, I think I ought really to be of great service to those in power. Can't you suggest anything for a born organiser to do? I don't mind whether it's in Downing Street, or Pall Mall, or where it is. In fact, I don't mind if it's in France, so long as expenses are paid. I think it's only right to ask for them, don't you? A labourer and his hire, don't you know? And what costs nothing is too often worth nothing, eh? But it must be sound organising work—armaments, stirring up the country, registering the slackers—I don't mind what. You'll try to think of something, won't you?"
I undertook to do so.
My regret is that I did not meet also D or even E and F. Because if I had I should have won their admiration and respect for the rest of their lives by my amazing skill as a clairvoyant.
"Hullo," I should have said, "I know what you are thinking. You are thinking that possibly might be of some use in helping you to a post as organiser of some kind in connection with the War. Because organising has always been your long suit. Munitions or something; it matters little so long as your organising genius (and genius is not too strong a word) could have play."
And the odd thing is that all the time I had been thinking of applying for some organising position for myself. But now I shall not.
Wounded Soldier. "Pretty rotten luck being pipped without even seeing a German."
Friend. "Don't let that worry you, old chap. When you get fit I'll show you hundreds of them over here."
THE ENEMY IN OUR MIDST.
Arch-geysers of infinite gush,
Whose cries, like a chorus of Stentors,
Put the peacock itself to the blush;
All terrible noises sound mellow
When matched with your pitiless blare,
As you loose your pontifical bellow,
High priests of hot air!
Their feuds for the general weal,
You choose to exhibit, by thinking
Aloud, your implacable zeal;
Other scribes not unworthy of mention
Gude conceit of their gifties have shown,
But never such cranial distension
Was hitherto known.
The sooner you yield to the itch
Of carping and grousing and blabbing
And queering the national pitch;
You praise, and are far more effective
In damning than if you were mute;
You rail, and enhance by invective
A stablished repute.
Thank Heav'n there are scores of them left—
Who cheer and encourage our fighters,
Who soothe and console the bereft;
There is none in the time of our trials
For those who endeavour to blight
Our leaders with gall from the vials
Of organized spite.
Who daily enlarge on their skill,
Who foster the plague of the posters
And feed the disease of the bill;
For it isn't the crisis that matters
So much as the pestilent ways
Of the critic who censures or flatters,
Who postures and brays.
"As Barmaid, a respectable young man."
Advt. in "Morning Advertiser."
Shirkers should take up this idea and disguise themselves as women. It ought not to be difficult.