LETTERS TO HAUPTMANN.
[Gerhart Hauptmann, the German dramatist and poet, has nominated Lord Curzon as Viceroy of England when it becomes a German province.]
And secure his just abasement,
Well, I think you might have written
First to me.
(Signed) Roger Casement.
For my expenditure of jaw
And anti-British "common-sense,"
Why not yours truly,
Bernard Shaw?
The man for you is
Charles Travelyan.
Protest against my resignation,
My long experience vice-regal
Might mollify the German eagle
If he should nest on College Green.
Yours amicably,
Aberdeen.
Would lie too heavy on the land;
No, to appease the British Isles
Appoint yours truly,
William Byles.
Under Lord Curzon might grow skittish;
Far better knit the nations twain
Under a more pacific reign:
For instance, Brunner's; he's beyond
Reproach. Yours ever,
Alfred Mond.
But his demeanour is too feudal;
Try Alfred Mond: he is a stunner,
Affectionately yours,
John Brunner.
I'm not unwilling to compete
For any post in which there's scope
To preach humanitarian hope.
You might, of course, secure elsewhere
A smarter or a "faster" man,
But none in "uplift" could compare
With truly yours,
Charles Masterman.
ALONZO.
It was a bright Monday morning in September, and I was doing my usual patter dance in the dressing-room, striving to defeat the time-table—ten minutes for breakfast and five minutes to get to the station.
I dipped hurriedly into the collar-drawer, drew one forth, inverted it, cast a tie (Wadham Wanderers, E. team) into the parting and proceeded to secure the arrangement. The back stud operated without comment, but when I came to the front there seemed a to be an inch or two of collar missing. At first I looked at it with mild surprise, then the horrible truth flashed through me.
I dashed into Joe's room.
"Look here," I exclaimed, "just look at my neck!"
Joe looked at it carefully for quite a minute.
"Yes," she remarked, "I think there is a tiny spot under the left ear. You've been drilling too much. You've been dressing too much to the left."
"No! No!" I shouted, tugging at the collar, "can't you see how swollen it is? It's that complaint you get from drinking chalky water. It's all your fault! I've told you hundreds of times to put a marble in the kettle."
Joe unfastened the collar, looked at it and laughed.
I snatched it back.
Inside there was a brief summary:
"Alonzo. Fourfold. 141⁄2."
I take 16.
That," said Joe, pointing to Alonzo, "must be the extra collar they sent from the laundry last week."
It was. Alonzo was a gift—a donation. Sleek, youthful and unsullied, he came to us, bringing an air of tragedy into the home.
Three times during that week I tried to soil his glossy coat, and each time a golden minute was shorn from my breakfast. After that I put him in the sock drawer.
At the end of the first week I said to Joe, "Alonzo is bored, the society of half-hose does not interest him. Send him home."
He was sent, and my wardrobe settled itself peacefully.
On the following Monday I dipped into the collar drawer, went through the usual rites, and——— No, it didn't really startle me. He had returned.
I put him in the sock drawer again.
Evidently he had plans of his own. One week at the laundry and one week at "Sunnyside," alternating, as it were, between taking the waters and a rest cure.
I began to respect Alonzo, but at the same time I felt he must be shown that there is such a thing as authority. I put him in a cardboard box, addressed it myself, posted it myself, and wrote to the manager myself. You think that settled him? You do not know Alonzo. He is made of sterner stuff than that.
At the end of the week he was back again, well and cheerful. Coming of a resourceful and determined race we tried other means—I forget how many—of outing him. Once the manager took him away in a taxi and once our Ann consigned him to the ash-pit.
It was no good. We had to give it up. We adopted him. As I write, Alonzo rests in his sock drawer, slightly fatigued but indomitable.
JOHN SMITH TO JOHANN SCHMIDT.
Before this all begun,
Was queer in talk, but acted fair,
And paid your way, and did your share
Of things as should be done.
And ate some. All the same,
You beat us some ways sure enough,
And seemed like pals, though brought up rough,
For which you weren't to blame.
Remem'bring what you'd been,
You'd march to heel as you were cussed,
And so you'd fight because you must,
But still you'd fight us clean.
With filthy tricks you've played;
And whether you were bid or not
Is nought to us; we hate the lot
What ordered or obeyed.
But foes, these rougher days;
We're out against you till you're brought
To book, your Chief and you, and taught
To drop your bullying ways.
For reasons one and two:
He draws his bright and shiny sword
To make him one and only Lord
Of all the world—and You.
Your heads is cracked and cooled,
You'll think the glory middling thin
And hate the lying cheats like sin
To see how you've been fooled.
To state the view you take
In words that's not so sweet and kind
But what they'll let them War-Lords find
You're suddenly awake.
To start and grow like men.
Turn round and do your level bit
Till brag and grab are past and quit,
And then we'll pal again.
Motto for the Turkish Army in the Caucasus:—"There ain't going to be no Corps."
