It seems a reasonable explanation.
Officer (to Tommy, who has been using the whip freely). "Don't beat him; talk to him, man—talk to him!"
Tommy (to horse, by way of opening the conversation). "I coom from Manchester."
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
The latest of our writers to contribute to the growing literature of the War is Mr. Hugh Walpole. He has written a book about it called The Dark Forest (Secker), but whether it is a good or a bad book I who have read it carefully from cover to cover confess my inability to decide. It is certainly a clever book, and violently unusual. I doubt whether the War is likely to produce anything else in the least resembling it. For one thing, it deals with a phase of the struggle, the Russian retreat through Galicia, about which we in England are still tragically ignorant. Mr. Walpole writes of this as he himself has seen it in his own experience as a worker with the Russian Red Cross. The horrors, the compensations, the tragedy and happiness of such work have come straight into the book from life. But not content with this, he has peopled his mission with fictitious characters and made a story about them. And good as the story is, full of fine imagination and character, the background is so tremendously more real that I was constantly having to resist a feeling of impatience with the false creations (in Macbeth's sense) who play out their unsubstantial drama before it. Yet I am far from denying the beauty of Mr. Walpole's idea. The characters of Trenchard, the self-doubting young Englishman, who finds reality in his love for the nurse Marie Ivanovna, and of the Russian doctor, Semyonov, who takes her from him, are exquisitely realized. And the atmosphere of increasing mental strain, in which, after Marie's death, the tragedy of these three moves to its climax in the forest is the work of an artist in emotion, such as by this time we know Mr. Walpole to be. The trouble was that I had at the moment no wish for artistry. To sum up, I am left with the impression that an uncommonly good short story rather tiresomely distracted my attention from some magnificent war-pictures.
As Field-Marshal Sir Evelyn Wood, V.C., in Our Fighting Services (Cassell), begins with the Battle of Hastings and ends with the Boer War there is no gainsaying the fact that his net has been widely spread. To assist him in the compilation of this immense tome the author has a fluent style and—to judge from the authorities consulted and the results of these consultations—an inexhaustible industry. The one should make his book acceptable to the amateur who reads history because he happens to love it, and the other should make it invaluable to professionals who handle books of reference, not lovingly, but of necessity. And having said so much in praise of Sir Evelyn I am also happy to add that he is, on the whole, that rare thing—an historian without prejudices. Almost desperately, for instance, he tries to express his admiration of Oliver Cromwell as a soldier, although he quite obviously detests him as a man. I find myself, however, wondering whether Sir Evelyn, were he writing of Cromwell at this hour, would say, "For a man over forty years of age to work hard to acquire the rudiments of drill is in itself remark