THE CAREER.
My dear James,—Ere long the military machine will be able to spare one of its cogs—myself. Yes, James, soon you will once again see me in my silk hat, cerise fancy vest and brown boots (among other garments). I think I shall have brass buttons on all my coats for the sheer joy of seeing them without let or hindrance grow green from lack of polish. I shall once again train my hair in graceful curling strands under (respectively) the south-east and south-west corners of my ears. If I meet my Brigadier in the street I shall notice him or not just according to my whim of the moment. But, James, I shall have to work for my living. There's the rub.
I must say the Army tries to help one. Somebody or other has issued a whole schedule of civil occupations to assist me in my choice of a career. It offers an embarrassment of riches.
Take the "A's." I was momentarily attracted by Air Balloon Maker. It sounds a joyous job. Think of the delight of sending forth these delicate nothings inflated and perfect. My only fear is that I should destroy the fruits of my own labour. One touch of my rough hands is always inimical to an air-balloon. And if you know of any more depressing sight than a collapsed air-balloon, all moist and incapable of resurrection, for heaven's sake keep it to yourself.
Allowance Man (brewing) sounds hopeful. My only question is: Does an Allowance Man (brewing) fix his own allowance (brewed)?
Am I slightly knock-kneed or am I not? Do write me frankly on the subject. You have seen me divested of trousers. Because if I am then I don't think I will try my luck as an Artist's Model.
Athlete.—Ha! I feel my biceps and find it not so soft. It's a wearing life, though. Is there such a thing as an Athlete (indoor)? You know my speed and agility at Ludo.
I flatter myself I have musical taste, but Back and Belly Maker (piano) I consider vulgar—almost indecent, in fact. Such anatomical intimacy with the piano would destroy for me the bewitchment of the Moonlight Sonata.
There is something very alluring about Bank Note Printer. I see the chance of continuing the Army trick of making a living without working for it. Surely a Bank Note Printer is allowed his little perquisites. Why should he print millions of bank notes for other people and none for himself? I can imagine an ill-used Bank Note Printer very easily becoming a Bolshevist.
Barb Maker (wire) I do not like. I have too many unpleasant memories of the Somme. It is a hideous trade and ought to be abolished altogether.
If I am wrong correct me, but isn't the prime function of a Bargee to swear incessantly? Not my forte, James. What you thought you heard that day in 1911, when I missed a six-inch putt, was only "Yam," which is a Thibetan expression meaning "How dreadfully unfortunate!" I knew a Major once—but that's for another article.
Beneath the heading "Bat" I find Bat Maker (brick) and Bat Maker (tennis). Under which king, James? Anyway, I hate a man who talks about a "tennis bat." He would probably call football shorts "knickers."
I am favourably inclined towards Bathing Machine Attendant (why not Bathing Mechanic, for short?) What a grand affair to ride old Dobbin into the seething waves and pretend he was a sea-serpent! Confidentially, there are lots of people to whose bathing-machines I would give an extra push when I had unlimbered their vehicles and turned Dobbin's nose again towards the cliffs of Albion.
My pleasure in stirring things with a ladle nearly decided me to train as a Bean Boiler; but I fear the monotony. Nothing but an endless succession of beans, with never a carrot to make a splash of colour nor an onion to scent the steamy air. And, James, I have a friend who is known to all and sundry as "The Old Bean." Every bean I was called upon to boil would remind me of him, whom I would not boil for worlds.
Here is something extraordinarily attractive—Black Pudding Maker. You know black puddings. I am told that when you stew them (do not eat them cold, I implore you!) they give off ambrosial perfumes, and that after tasting one you would never again touch pèche Melba. But as a Black Pudding Maker should I become nauseated?
Almost next door comes Blood Collector. Wait while I question the Mess Cook ... James, I cannot become a Black Pudding maker. The Mess Cook tells me that Blood Collector and Black Pudding Maker are probably allied trades. How dreadful!
How about Bobber? Does that mean that I should have to shear my wife's silken tresses? Cousin Phyllis has appeared with a tomboy's shock of hair, and she says it "has only been bobbed." By a "bobber"? I would like to wring his neck. But if Bobber has something to do with those jolly little things that dance about on cotton machines (aren't they called "bobbins"?) I will consider it.
I have not even finished the "B's." A glance ahead and other enchanting vistas are revealed. For instance, Desiccated Soup Maker, Filbert Grower and (simply) Retired.
This Schedule is splendid in its way, but why can't they be honest? They must know that lots of us in our great national army are in ordinary life just rogues and vagabonds. The Schedule ignores such honest tradesmen. How is a respectable tramp to know when his group is called for demobilisation if he is not even given a group? What a nation of prigs and pretenders we are!
Yours ever, WILLIAM.
AUTRES TEMPS, AUTRES MOEURS.
My baker gives me chunks of bread—
He used to throw them at my head;
His manners, I rejoice to state,
Have very much improved of late.
My butcher was extremely gruff,
And sold me—oh, such horrid stuff;
But I observe, since Peace began,
Some traces of a better man.
I find my grocer hard to please
In little things like jam or cheese;
Now that the men are coming back
His scowl, I think, is not so black.
My coalman is a haughty prince
No tears could move or facts convince;
But tyrants topple everywhere
And he too wears a humbler air.
My milkman was a man of wrath
As he came down the garden path;
But, since the Hohenzollern fell,
I find him almost affable.
And what is this? My greengrocer
(A most determined character)
Approaches—'13 style—to say,
"What can I do for you to-day?"
"GERMAN CONSTITUTION.
Bill Disposing of Old Prussia."
Manchester Guardian.
Tit for tat; Prussia had already disposed of Old BILL.
"Mr. Cecil Harmswirth has vacated his iffict in the 'gardtn suburb' at 0. Downing Strtet."—Daily Mail.
To the evident consternation of Carmelite Street.
"'I am an A.B.C. girl,' said a passenger to The Daily Mirror, 'and have been eleven hours on my feet. If a get a seat in the Dulwich omnibus, I shall have another hour's standing before I get to my house.'"—Daily Mirror.
It seems to be high time that the omnibus company adopted the railway regulation, "Passengers are requested not to put their feet on the seats, etc."
