Hathi Trust has recently added Google digitized copies of early 20th-century volumes of Punch magazine. I was happy to find some articles by Ashley Sterne in Punch, Volume 149, 1915. Here are the first three, a set of linked articles in the form of letters written by Oswald to his friend Peter. Peter loans his cottage to Oswald and his wife Joan to permit them to enjoy an inexpensive vacation in the country.
The Country Cotters I
p. 86 July 28, 1915
The Country Cotters II p. 116
August 4, 1915
The Country Cotters III p. 128
August 11, 1915
[Note: The word "cotter" is an old-fashioned British word for cottager or farm tenant. The term "screw-day" is British slang from the early 20th century referring to payday at the end of the month. The word "charing" means a domestic chore.]
THE COUNTRY COTTERS.
I.
DEAR PETER,
Thank you for your magnanimous offer to lend me one-and-sevenpence
till next screw-day, but you have entirely misinterpreted my letter. You forgot to read between the lines. What I intended to convey to you was that Joan
and I are much too hard up this year to afford a holiday on our usual scale of
princely munificence. What we are
accustomed to is an "excellent cuisine
under the immediate supervision of a professional, choice wines from our own
wood, separate knives and forks for each course, separate serviettes," the
type of accommodation with which the Railway Guides have doubtless made you
familiar.
But I see no prospect of our being able to afford these
extravagances unless we make some more money. This we could possibly do by Joan's accepting
a little plain charing and by my taking pupils for fretwork and the mandoline
courses which, I need scarcely say, we are very loath to adopt, as the families
of both of us date back to Queen Victoria, a fact of which we are naturally
proud, though jealous young Edwardians might possibly call it swank.
Things being so, you may imagine how anxious I am to solve
the problem of our annual holiday satisfactorily. A few days ago I thought I had done so. I came across an advertisement in one of the
papers which suggested to me a method whereby we could secure, with a little
adroitness and savoir faire, a
holiday of the kind to which we have been brought up, at only half the usual
price. The advertisement concluded —
"Terms from 7s. 6d. a day . . . Days of arrival and departure reckoned as
one day." Now can you see my
idea? If we started off in the sidecar
one morning at about 5.30 we could Lumpton-super-Mare in time for the
"full meat breakfast" at 8.30, and need not leave until we had had
"coffee in the Lounge" after dinner on the following day. This accommodation would undoubtedly be cheap
at 15s. for the two of us. We should
then leave the Hotel at 11.55 and return at a few minutes after midnight, and
ask for rooms again. And so on, day
after day, until we had spent all our money, or were forcibly escorted beyond
the frontier by a posse of Boy
Scouts.
I laid the idea before Joan, but she says there must be a
flaw in my argument somewhere, or else why hasn't the idea been worked before ?
My answer to that was that other people haven't got my brains. Nevertheless, Joan refuses to attempt the
scheme unless I first consult Perkins about it. But that, I consider, would be sheer waste of
money, because I shall have to pay Perkins 6s. 8d. for his opinion in any case,
and then, if his opinion should coincide with my own, I shall have absolutely
squandered eight-ninths of a Lumpton-super-Mare full meat breakfast,
eight-ninths of a Lumpton lunch (with choice of hot and cold dishes),
eight-ninths of a Lumpton afternoon tea (including cake or biscuits),
eight-ninths of a Lumpton 18-hole table
d'hote dinner, eight-ninths of a Lumpton coffee in the lounge, to say
nothing of eight-ninths of bed, free boots, lights and attendance.
With some reluctance therefore, I finally abandoned the idea
at 2.47 a.m. next morning, but I rejoice to say that a brand-new brain-wave
arrive to-day immediately after reading your generous letter. Now, Peter, you own a country cottage,
"The Yews" (or is it "The Ewes"?), at Windleton, Sussex, which you never use
except as an address from which to write letters to The Daily Mail, possibly with the notion that the opinions of Peter
Travers, of Windleton, in the County of Sussex, Gentleman, will have greater
weight with the Editor than those of Peter Travers, of Thornton Heath, in the
County of — is it in a county ? — average
adjuster. What do you say to letting it
to me for three weeks come next Tuesday? I should be willing to pay you any sum in
reason, say threepence a week, for the use of it. I would take great care of it, and always
bring it in at night . . . No, no, my dear Peter, we simply couldn't. We may be poor, but (as I have
already told you) we are proud. I insist
on putting the matter on a regular business footing. Many thanks all the same, in which my wife
joins me. . . .
We should, of course, expect nothing in return for airing
the beds, ventilating the premises or feeding the ewes (or is it "yews"
?). But I should like to know
(a) What rent will you allow me to pay?
(b) Is the cottage on the electrophone ?
(c) Is there a bath-room? Failing that, a ducking-stool at the village
pond?
(d) A skating-rink?
(e) A presbytery?
(f) Do we have to take our own linen, glass, cutlery and
chaplain?
Let me have a reply at once, there 's a good Peter, for
which I enclose — at least, I think I
enclose ; yes, I do enclose a penny
stamp.
What about references'? My bankers will, I am sure, be pleased to
certify that my overdraft is no more that usual, and our family doctor would
not have any objection to testifying that I always discard from weakness. Or, let me see, isn't it you who ought to give me
references? I will ask Perkins (not, if
I can avoid it, in a professional way, but in the course of general
conversation), and if he says Yes, I shall require references from the
Archbishop of Canterbury, Mr. Gordon Selfridge and the Spanish Ambassador.
Your loving little friend (though it sounds more like a
biscuit),
Oswald
THE COUNTRY COTTERS.
II.
DEAR PETER,
Taking it all round we like your country cottage immensely. The Crystal Palace is, perhaps, a trifle
roomier, airier and better lighted, but then of course we could not have got the
Crystal Palace for a pound — or did you say a shilling? — a week; and, besides,
the Crystal Palace has no wild roses climbing up the porch and no pump in the
scullery. True, your ceilings are a bit
low; but then one always stoops when one is shaving, and one usually sits down
at meal-times, and one has to lie down in bed, and one never wants to dawdle about
on a staircase, anyhow. At the same time
I wonder if you would have any objection to my sawing a small piece out of. the
Jacobean rafter in the sitting-room — just sufficient to admit of my rising
from the breakfast-table without incurring daily concussion of the brain? I got up from the table this morning quite
forgetting about the Jacobean rafter, with the result that the knob which I now
wear on the top of my head makes the sitting-room fit me worse than ever.
Then there's the pump in the scullery. Now don't
misunderstand me and imagine that I am wilfully finding fault. Pumps, spinning-wheels, sun-dials, Jacobean
rafters, inaccessibility of doctor and post-office, bats, oldest inhabitant (if
any), children biting the hems of their pinafores all these, my dear Peter,
combine to bring the scent of the hay over the .footlights, as it were. I love them all. But I do expect a pump to have a sense of duty
and convey water. What actually happened
the first day we arrived, with our tongues lolling out for a cup of tea, was
this. After Joan and I had in turn
worked the pump-handle some five thousand times each, we merely succeeded in
pumping out a spider, followed a quarter of an hour later by about an
egg-cupful of a dark and sinister-looking fluid strongly impregnated with
rust. This would have been acceptable if
we had brought the canary with us. It has recently moulted rather severely, and
has used up our entire stock of rusty nails. But as a basis for tea it was impossible, and
Joan went away to find a quiet corner in which to die. I wasn't surprised. A day at your pump, Peter, would make even the
health of emperors ridiculous.
However, your handy man,Wrighton, of whom you told me,
opportunely looked in to see if he were wanted. He was. I explained our trouble to him, and he at once
examined the pump with the eye of an expert — I suppose there are pump experts?
He said the leather of the plunger had
perished, and he would fit another piece. Meanwhile he would fetch us some water from
his private well.
Now, Peter, why don't you get a well? It would be quite in
keeping with the rest of life in a country cottage, and oughtn't to cost very
much. After all, a well is only a hole, and goodness knows holes are cheap
enough. Get an estimate from a well-sinker, anyway.
While Wrighton had gone for the water I went to look for
Joan. I found her lying down on the sofa in the sitting-room, in a state of
utter collapse. The poor girl bad had to
break into the emergency ration of chocolate-cream which she had fortunately
brought with her, and was endeavouring to restore her shattered faculties by
reading a copy of Country Life for
December, 1911. (Your library is sadly
out of date). I said, " The leather
of the plunger has perished." : To which Joan merely remarked : "But
the silk stockings of the liftman's little neighbour (feminine) have been
saved. To-morrow we will conjugate savoir and connaitre." This will show you the state to which your pump
has reduced us. But we are getting
slowly better. The oxygen cylinder has gone back to town and we no longer need
to take nourishment during the night.
You will be flattered to learn that we followed your advice
and took a cold chicken down with us in the side-car. It was thoughtful of you to mention that
Tuesday was early closing day in Windleton, and that we should have difficulty
in getting in provisions. As a matter of
fact we did. The cold chicken left us
without giving notice somewhere between Horley and Horsham. If you should happen to know anyone who lives
between these two places you might ask him to keep an eye open (or, if he 's
not very busy, both eyes open) for a cold — No, never mind. It's no good counting on spilt chickens.
Besides, it 's probably curdled by now.
When I can spare the time I'm going to devote a little
attention to taming your wild roses. One
scratched me this morning as I was going into the garden; not spitefully, mind
you, but (I believe) playfully. Or
perhaps you wilfully keep them in this fierce condition to scare away tramps,
just as other people keep a watch-dog? If so, watch-roses are indeed a novelty, and I
feel it incumbent upon me to stick up a notice — "Beware of the wild
roses."
Talking of wild things, Joan wants to start a goat. Wrighton, it appears, has a spare one which he
can't use. It is too young to go as a
regimental mascot, and he has offered it to her for the sake of getting it a
comfortable home. Joan has already
commenced to babble about growing our own gorgonzola for the mouse-trap, but a
goat in the Sussex jungle and a goat in a suburban garden are two totally
different propositions, Peter. Supposing
it went mad .and tossed the postman? Besides,
I happen to know it 's a buck, and no good for anything except to draw a
goat-chaise or to be converted into pemmican, for neither of which we have any
pressing need. I therefore propose,
before the plot thickens any farther, to offer Wrighton half-a-crown not to
give us the animal, but to do as he originally intended and send it to the next
village rummage sale to be raffled.
Windleton is very charitably disposed just now, and we have
lately had a perfect orgy of frivolities in the shape of sales and fetes on behalf of the various War
funds. Last Saturday there was An Evening with Keats in the village
schoolroom, given by Miss Mullens, one of the teachers. A numerous and costly audience, I understand,
stayed at home. Then on Tuesday a Fruit,
Flower and Vegetable Show was held, to which we should certainly have sent a
very fine growth which we discovered in your paddock if we had been conscientiously
able to enter it as a mushroom. But
unfortunately our joint botany broke down at the test, and there was no class
for mushstools. To-morrow there is a
Lawn Tennis Tournament in the Vicarage garden, for which Joan and I have
entered, as we find that your effects here do not include either
electro-plated asparagus-servers or cut-glass scent-bottles.
By-the-by, the Vicar has called twice (we were out on each
occasion), and we are filled with trepidation, as we are not au courant with the customs of country
clergymen. Will he ask us what we are? (Please wire reply). If he does, I shall say we are Bi-metallists, but that we hold very conservative views with regard to contributing
to funds for restoring the old Norman weather-cock or for adding a vox populi stop to the organ.
Your affectionate tenant,
Oswald.
THE COUNTRY COTTERS.
III.
YOU SILLY IDIOT,
Why on earth didn't you tell me you kept wasps down here? I had no idea you went in for such a hobby.
But why is your vespiary at the bole of the apple-tree immediately
outside the sitting-room window? Have
you any specific objection to my drugging it and removing it to a nice empty
hole at the back of the wood-shed? I
will then revive it with sal-volatile; and
inform the neighbours that the change of premises does not mean any suspension
of the regular business; and that they may be stung from 9 a.m. to 7 p.m. as
heretofore.
I am emboldened to suggest this alteration because yesterday
morning at breakfast, the window being open to admit a balmy Sussex draught,
one of your wasps wanted the honey at the same moment that I did. Joan, who is no vespiphile, flicked her
table-napkin and said, "Shoo!" The wasp must have misunderstood her, for it
immediately settled on the back of my hand and sat down on its pointed end. The result was that I said "Help!"
though Joan makes out that I muted the final letter.
Unfortunately we had brought no ammonia with us. The nearest approach to that useful alkali
that we possessed was a bottle of ammoniated quinine, some of which I applied faute de mieux. I can't tell whether it did any good or not,
because I don't know what would have happened if I had not applied it. Joan thinks the wound would have "gathered,"
but I imagine she is confusing a needlework term.
Now you know why I want to move
your wasps, Peter. The alternative is to eat our honey elsewhere. But bread and
honey is so essentially a parlour dish (has it not as such long since received
the cachet of royal example?) that to
eat it in the scullery, say, or in one of the bedrooms, seems to me seriously malapropos.
You may be interested to know that
our honey was a local industry. None of
your New Zealand frozen honey for us, my boy! We bought it in the village, at a most
unpretentious little shop. Its one
window contained a cucumber, the butt-end of which was immersed in a jam-pot of
water, and four round glass jars containing respectively bulls'-eyes,
Pontefract cakes (which badly needed repolishing), nothing, and "Windleton
Mixture." There was also a card
displayed bearing the legend —
HONEY
FROM OUR OWN BEES
RUN
OR COMB
"I should like some of that
honey," I remarked to Joan one day as we were passing the shop. " But
what does 'run or comb' mean? Is there a
distinction in honey as there is in butter – fresh or smoked?" Joan explained. "Anyhow, we'll have it in the comb,"
she said; "then if we find we don't like it in that form we can run
it. Whereas if we buy run honey and find
that, after all, we want it in the comb —"
Now, Peter, an idea has occurred to me. Do wasps make anything? I can't recall any mention of it in Lord Avebury,
but I have a sort of notion that they make frumenty. (Joan says that frumenty is a disinfectant.) At any rate there is the idea in my mind, and
what possible object should I have in imagining that wasps make frumenty if
they don't ? What I wish to do, then, is
to have a card printed to hang in the sitting-room window : —
FRUMENTY FROM OUR OWN
WASPS
THICK OR CLEAR.
Meanwhile, let me know if I can send you some, at the same
time not forgetting to cut hole in card in order to indicate size of mouth.
I much regret to say we were unsuccessful in our attempt to
procure you the asparagus-servers and the scent-bottles offered in the Lawn
Tennis Tournament. Joan attributes our failure to the fact that whenever it was my service I
played the Ruy Lopez gambit (six balls in the net and two in the Vicar's
orchard) ; while I put it down chiefly to Joan's persistently playing the
"nullo" game. Even so, this is
hardly sufficient to account for our being defeated six-love in two consecutive
sets by a brace of sheer rabbits. The
truth is that our opponents' strong point was their appalling feebleness, and I
tell you without shame, Peter, that to be served soft under-hand lobs without a
soupcon of 'googly' about them by a left-handed auctioneer clad in a pink
shirt, grey flannel trousers, plimsolls, and a straw hat with a hat-guard,
absolutely demoralised us, who have spoken to Gore and Ritchie ("Oh, good return, sir!" from the
covered stand). The auctioneer's partner
was of that neophytic type, that "also serve," but chiefly
"stand and wait"; but I am told that she does a great amount of good
amongst the poor in the village.
And now I regret (yet also rejoice) to say something else: I
am obliged to bring my tenancy of " The Yews " to a premature close
to-morrow, Friday. I quite forgot to
tell you, when I entered into treaty with you for the occupation of these
premises, that I had previously offered to give Lloyd George a hand with the
munitions, and attend the Arsenal over the week-ends — just to keep an eye on
the other fellows, and see that they only went out to lunch a reasonable number
of times. Well, while I have been
writing this letter to you an urgent message has come inviting me to present
myself at the Arsenal on Saturday afternoon next. Joan is certain that if I fail to appear I
shall be shot at daybreak, and my funeral, she says, would just now cause a great
deal of unnecessary inconvenience; and I am inclined to agree with her. Under these circumstances,
Peter, I am sure you will not insist on my completing my
sentence, and I have therefore calculated that I owe you for ten days'
accommodation (reckoning day of arrival and day of departure as one day),
which, at the rate of a pound a week, works out at ₤1 8s. 6 6/7d.
I
accordingly enclose my cheque for ₤1 8s. 6d. together with a bun (we bought
seven for sixpence this morning), which is the only way I can think of to settle
this vulgar and objectionable fraction.
Trusting that my cheque will be honoured with all that
old-world courtesy for which the Bank of England is noted,
I am, Ever your grateful ex-tenant,
Oswald.
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