Once upon a time, not so very long ago, an illustrious man of
affairs--soldier and statesman too--visited our shores, and by his
wise counsels so captured the imagination of his hearers and readers
that one of the greatest of all compliments was paid to him, and
anyone with a black cocker spaniel to name named it after him; and he
had a name rather peculiarly adapted to such ends too.
It chanced that among the puppies thus made illustrious was one which
a young soldier before leaving for France to win the War gave to his
sister, and when writing to him, as, being a good girl, she regularly
and abundantly did, she never omitted to give tidings as to how the
little creature was developing; and I need hardly say that in the
whole history of dogs, from TOBIT'S faithful trotting companion
onwards, there never was a dog so packed with intelligence and
fidelity as this. Most girls' dogs are perfect, but this one was more
remarkable still.
Now it happened that the gallant brother, in the course of his duties
as a war-winner, was moved from place to place so often that he
gradually lost definition, as the photographers say, and the result
was that one of her recent letters failed to catch up with him. That
was a pity, because it was a better letter than usual. It gave all the
news that he would most want to hear. It said what picture her father
was working on at the moment, and told, without spoiling them, his two
last jokes. It said whom her mother had called on and who had called
on her mother and how something must be done to stop her smoking too
many cigarettes. It said that their young brother, having sprained his
ankle at hockey, had become a wolf for jig-saw puzzles. It said where
their parents had dined recently and where they were going to dine and
who was coming next week. It said what she had seen at the theatre
last Saturday and what book she was reading. It said which of the
other V.A.D.'s had become engaged. It said what an awful time they had
had trying to buy some tea, and how scarce butter had become, and
what a cold she had caught in the last raid, and how Uncle Jim had
influenza and couldn't go on being a special, and how Aunt Sibyl had
been introduced to one of the GEDDESES and talked to him as though it
was the other, and how she herself had met Evelyn in the street
the other day and Evelyn had asked "with suspicious interest after
you"--and a thousand other things such as a good sister, even though
busy at a hospital, finds time to write to a brother over there, all
among the mud and the shells, winning the War. And not being in the
habit of signing her name, when writing in this familiar way, she
finished up with a reference to the darlingest of all dogs by sending
its love at the very end: "Love from ----" and so forth.
Well, the letter, as I have said, could not be delivered. The postal
people at the Front, and behind the Front, are astonishingly good, but
they could not get in touch with the brother this time, and therefore
they opened the letter and looked at the foot of it for the name of
the writer and found that of the dog, and at the head of it for
the street and town where the writer lived, and sent it back as
"insufficiently addressed."
And that is why in a certain house in Chelsea a treasured possession
is a returned letter for General SMUTS.
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