_Lochtermachty, N.B. May 29th, 1919._
DEAR MR. PUNCH,--My father and I have fallen out over the question
of your literary judgment and sense of humour. If I weren't a filial
daughter I'd say that he's a ----; but I am, so I won't call him
names.
The fact is that, before he became a professional Padre, he didn't
know that such things as senses of humour existed. All that mattered
in his life were Latin and Greek and Hebrew and the other pursuits
of the classical scholar. However, during his wanderings with
the Army he has somehow managed to acquire what he calls "an
appreciation of the laughable." And that is the cause of our divided
house.
This morning at breakfast, while he was reading out the account
of the proceedings of the General Assemblies, he came upon the
interesting statement--volunteered by an eminent Edinburgh
divine--that all the ministers of the Kirk have lost a stone in
weight during the War, and that this works out at a loss of five
tons of ministerial flesh to the United Free Church of Scotland.
Then, after he had tested the accuracy of the statistics, which he
found quite incorrect, and I had meditated upon the bulk of matter
encircled by the parental Sam Browne, we were both seized with an
idea, and said "_Punch!_" at the same instant.
It took us some time to get rid of the accumulation of marmalade,
margarine and bacon fat which we amassed in our attempts to link
fingers across the table; but about 10.30 or so we got settled down
to work on your behalf.
Until lunch-time we were fully occupied in giving each other ideas
and then explaining why they wouldn't work. After lunch the
Padre retired to his study to work out, he said, a satire--after
ARISTOPHANES--which would afford him an opportunity of introducing
the Archbishop of CANTERBURY'S speech, and making some whimsical
allusions to the legend of the strayed lamb come back to tell his
lean Scotch brethren of the green meadows and luscious feeding to be
had across the Borders.
My own ambitions were slighter. I would do a conversation perhaps
between the shades of JOHNSON and his BOZZY, or a Limerick, or even
just an original witty remark, or, failing all of these, I would
select an "apt quotation." About tea-time I retired to the garden
with a notebook, a pencil and a book of quotations. By 6.30 I had a
list of one hundred and two, and was wavering over the final choice
of a parody on "Some hae meat wha canna eat," and an adaptation of
"Be sooople, Davie, in things immaterial," when my parent came
out to the lawn, flushed and excited, with his last three hairs
triumphantly erect, and brandished a document in my face.
It was an ode, Mr. Punch--an ode five (foolscap) pages long, written
in Greek!
I gave him best at once, and then very gently suggested that his
composition might not in its present unmitigated form be _quite_
suited to your tastes and requirements.
I shall spare you the details of the ensuing controversy, but I want
you to know that I have spared you much else, and in so doing have
forfeited not only my father's affection but a projected advance on
my next quarter-but-three's dress allowance.