Now, ere the price thereof goes soaring up,
Ere yet the devastating tax comes in,
I wish to wallow in the temperate cup
(Loud cheers) that not inebriates, like gin;
Ho, waiter! bring me—nay, I do not jest—
A cocoa of the best!
Noblest of all non-alcoholic brews,
Rich nectar of the Nonconformist Press,
Tasting of Cadbury and The Daily News,
Of passive martyrs and the law's distress,
And redolent of the old narcotic spice
Of peace-at-any-price—
What memories, how intolerably sweet,
Hover about its fat and unctuous fumes!
Of Little England and a half-baked Fleet,
Of German friendship pure as vernal blooms,
And that dear country's hallowed right to dump
Things on us in the lump;
Of tropic isles whereon this beverage springs,
And niggers sweating out their pagan souls;
Of British workmen, flattered even as kings,
So to secure their suffrage at the polls;
Of liberty for all to go on strike
Just when and where they like.
I would renew these wistful dreams to-night;
For, since upon my precious nibs, when ground,
McKenna's minions, with to-morrow's light,
Will plant a tax of sixpence in the pound,
My sacred memories, cheap enough before,
Will clearly cost me more.
O. S.
ANOTHER SCRAP OF PAPER.
I look all right, and I feel all right, but the doctor said the Army was no place for me. Having given me a piece of paper which said so, he looked over my head and called out, "Next, please." It was with this document I was going to produce a delicious thrill—what I might call an "electric" moment. I carefully rehearsed what should happen, though I was not quite sure what attitude to adopt—whether to give the impression that I was a member of a pacific society, look elaborately unconcerned or truculently youthful. This, I decided, had better be left to the psychological moment.
I would take my seat or strap in the crowded tram or train. Observing that I wore neither khaki nor armlet someone would want to know why "a big, strong, healthy-looking fellow like you was not in the Army." I should then try to look pacific or elaborately—see above again. But I should say nothing. My studied silence would annoy everybody. I was quite sure of this, because I really can do that sort of silence very well. The inevitable old woman with a bundle would fix me with her watery eye. "The man in the street," who, of course, would now be in the tram or train, would give a brief history of his three sons and one brother-in-law at the Front. The armleted conductor (we are now in the tram) would give my ticket a very rude punch and my penny a very angry stare. When I was quite sure I had been set down as a slacker, I should produce the doctor's certificate of exemption. In my ultra-polite manner, which is nearly as good as my annoying silence, I should hand it to the man whose three sons and one brother-in-law had evidently been writing for more cigarettes. I would then say, "I know you can talk. It is possible you can read. Would you be good enough to read aloud this certificate?" It would be read and then handed back to me. I would fold it carefully and place it in my inside pocket. Looking very tenderly at the long row of rebuked countenances, I should get up and make for the door. This would be the delicious thrill, the electric moment. The following is what did happen.
I was on the Tube. Conditions were favourable, as Sir Oliver Lodge would say to Mrs. Piper. The old woman with the bundle was not there, but the shop-girl with three regimental brooches was. Everything was going as well as I could have wished. The shop-girl closed her novel and fingered her brooches. A fat old gentleman sniffed vigorously, and someone asked why "a big, strong, healthy, etc., etc." Nobody seemed to be impressed by my splendid silence, but it was there all the same, and somebody was going to be very sorry before he got home. I touched my tie and lit a fresh cigarette. The air was tense. I could almost see my electric moment walking down the compartment to meet me. We were nearing a station. I felt in my pocket.
I had left the certificate at home!
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