"A Belgian East African communiqué says that before the converging
advance of the Anglo-German Belgian columns, the enemy retired to
the south bank of the Kilimbero."--_Mombasa Times._
We seem to have met some of these Anglo-German columns in the Pacifist
Press.
"Our machines then bombed the General, in which the
German Head-quarters at Constantinople are reported to be
situated."--_Times._
The General must have been stout, even for a German.
"Not having regained consciousness the police are left with little
tangible evidence to work upon."--_Daily Telegraph._
Let us hope they will soon come to.
* * * * *
[Illustration: HOW TO UTILISE OUR SKILLED CRAFTSMEN.
_First Lieutenant._ "WHAT WAS THIS MAN BEFORE HE JOINED?"
_Petty Officer._ "OPTICIAN, SIR."
_First Lieutenant._ "WHAT HAD WE BETTER GIVE HIM TO DO?"
_Petty Officer._ "THERE'S THEM PRISMATIC SPOTTING GLASSES, SIR. THE
LEATHER STRAP IS BROKEN OFF THEM. HE COULD SPLICE IN A PIECE O' COD
LINE."]
* * * * *
_LE POILU DE CARCASSONNE._
THE _poilus_ of France on the Western Front are brave as brave can be,
Whether they hail from rich Provence or from ruined Picardie;
It's the self-same heart from the lazy Loire and the busy banks of Seine,
Undaunted by perpetual mud or cold or gas or pain;
And all are as gay as men know how whose wealth and friends are gone,
But the gayest of all is a little white dog that came from Carcassonne.
He was brought as a pup by a _Midi_ man to a sector along the Aisne,
But his man laid the wire one pitch-black night and never came back again.
The pup stood by with one ear down and the other a question mark,
And at times he licked his dead friend's face and at times he tried to bark,
Till the listening sentry heard the sound, and when the daylight shone
He looked abroad and cried, "_Bon Guieu! C'est le poilu de Carcassonne!_"
So the dead man's _copains_ kept the dog on the strength of the company.
And whoever went short it was not the pup, though a greedy pup was he;
They gave him their choicest bits of _sinje_ and drops of _pinard_ too;
He was warm and safe when he crept beneath a cloak of horizon-blue;
They clipped fresh _brisques_ in his rough white coat as the weary months
dragged on,
And all the sector knows him now as _le Poilu de Carcassonne_.
And in return he keeps their hearts from that haunting foe, _l'ennui_;
He's their plaything, friend, and sentry too, and a lover of devilry;
He helps them to hunt out rats or Boches; he burrows and sniffs for mines,
And he growls when the murderous shrapnel flies screaming above the lines;
His little black nose is a-quiver with glee whenever a raid is on,
And they say with pride, "_C'est la guerre elle-même, notre Poilu de
Carcassonne!_"
There was none more glad when they went to rest in their billet, a
ruined shack,
But when they returned to the front-line trench he was just as pleased
to be back;
He's the spirit of fun itself, and so when other men feel blue,
His friends remark, "_Le cafard, quoi? On l'connait pas chez nous!_"
So when you drink to the valiant French and the glorious fights they've won
Just raise your glass to a little white dog that came from Carcassonne.
* * * * *