IV—THE JOKERS OF BRUSSELS
Practical joking has become popular in Brussels since the German occupation. "Everybody's doing it"—amongst the Bruxellois, that is. A prohibition was lately placed upon the use of motor-cars by the civil population, and orders were issued for the enforcement of dire penalties in cases of disobedience. One afternoon a couple of German officers were seated in a café discussing mugs of beer with that portentous solemnity which the Teutonic mind finds proper to such an occasion, when a loud "Honk, honk!" the unmistakable blast of a motor-horn, was heard in the street outside. Forth dashed the officers, indignant at this flagrant transgression of orders, but when they reached the pavement no car was there. None was even in sight upon the whole length of the boulevard, though the sound of the horn had been close at hand. Crestfallen, the representatives of law and order—Prussian style—returned to their beer-mugs, but were hardly seated when again the loud "Honk, honk!" fell upon their ears, and again they dashed into the street, with the same result. Convinced that some impudent guttersnipe must be playing a trick, they questioned the nearest sentry. But the latter had seen neither car nor urchin; he had not even heard the mysterious sound, he averred, and the baffled officers began almost to doubt their ears. But the smile on the face of the Belgian proprietor of the café was suspicious.
Fresh mugs of beer were requisitioned, but the very first "Prosit" was interrupted by the malevolent "Honk, honk!" With froth-flecked lips that gave them an aspect admirably suited to their mood, the enraged officers set down the mugs with a bang and once more strode forth in quest of the miscreant. Once more a perfectly empty street met their gaze. But even as they scowled abroad, a mocking "Honk, honk!" sounded, this time just above their heads. The listeners started and looked up, to see a green parrot in a cage upon the window-sill above regarding them imperturably with a beady inscrutable eye. So flagrant a case of lèse majesté could not be overlooked, and the green parrot was executed.
But even in his murders the Boche lacks a sense of proportion, which is, of course, merely another way of saying that he has no sense of humor. To the martyrdom of the parrot must be added that of two luckless pigeons whose sole crime against the Deutches Reich was that of being born after a certain date. It was decreed soon after the occupation of Brussels that all owners of pigeons must notify the authorities the number of birds which they possessed. Amongst those complying with the order was a certain shopkeeper who kept a pair of pigeons as pets. They were not of the carrier variety, and he was allowed to retain them. But pigeons are notoriously domesticated creatures, and presently an interesting event occurred in the establishment of this happy couple. A couple of squabs were hatched out. These duly assumed down, which in turn became feathers, and presently there were four pigeons where formerly had been but two. At this stage a German official, armed with a registration list, paid a visit of inspection. He noted the well-preened quartette, and referred to his papers. Then he frowned ominously.
"On such and such a date you registered two pigeons."
"That is so," was the answer. "Since then——"
"But you have four there."
"Quite true. You are——"
"But you are only entitled to have two."
"A thousand pardons, mein Herr. But one cannot interfere with Nature. My two pigeons, you see——"