_Materfamilias_ (Manchester).--No, it is not necessary for you to wear
a dressing-gown for dinner out of compliment to your wounded guests'
pyjamas; if you wear your best tea-gown they will not know the
difference.
_Sweet and Twenty_ (Surbiton).--I do not think your mother could
object to your tucking up your charming wounded officer for the night
as long as you don a Red Cross cloak over your evening attire. It is
not usual to kiss these wounded heroes unless you or they are under
seventeen or over seventy.
_Veronica_ (Ventnor).--I think the right size of photograph for your
second cousin to take with him to the Front depends on its subject:
cabinets are usual for dogs, horses and female first cousins; carte
size for parents and male relatives; but from the tone of your letter
and from the fact that you are only his _second_ cousin, I think there
are but two alternatives: boudoir size, or a dainty miniature in a
leather case for the pocket, such as can be obtained at Messrs. Snooks
for the modest sum of ten guineas.
* * * * *
"Germans and Austrians at Loggerheads."
_Daily Paper._
Another of these Polish towns.
* * * * *
"PUNCH" IN THE ENEMY'S TRENCHES.
[To the officer whose letter, reproduced in _The Daily Telegraph_,
after reporting the irregular exchange of Christmas gifts between
our men and the enemy, goes on to say:--"In order to put a stop to
a situation which was proving impossible, I went out myself after
a time with a copy of 'Punch,' which I presented to a dingy Saxon
in exchange for a small packet of excellent cigars and
cigarettes."]
A Scent of truce was in the air,
And mutual compliments were paid--
A sausage here, a mince-pie there,
In lieu of bomb and hand-grenade;
And foes forgot, that Christmastide,
Their business was to kill the other side.
Then, greatly shocked, you rose and said,
"This is not my idea of War;
On milk of human-kindness fed,
Our men will lose their taste for gore;
All this unauthorized good-will
Must be corrected by a bitter pill."
And forth you strode with stiffened spine
And met a Saxon in the mud
(Not Anglo-) and with fell design
To blast his joyaunce in the bud,
And knock his rising spirits flat,
You handed him a _Punch_ and said, "Take that!"
A smile upon his visage gleamed.
Little suspecting your intent,
He proffered what he truly deemed
To be a fair equivalent--
A bunch of fags of local brand
And Deutschodoros from the Vaterland.
You found them excellent, I hear;
Let's hope your gift had equal worth,
Though meant to curb his Christmas cheer
And check the interchange of mirth;
I should be very glad to feel
It operated for his inner weal.
For there he found, our dingy friend,
Amid the trench's sobering slosh,
What must have left him, by the end,
A wiser, if a sadder, Bosch,
Seeing himself with chastened mien
In that pellucid well of Truth serene.