The Girl Philippa

You can tell a better tale than I; Trap and wing you shoot a better score; You can cast a surer, lighter fly, Catch as can, you'd put me on the floor; Should I hoist a sail beneath the sky Yours the race, away and back to shore.

You have mastered all my woodland lore, In the saddle you can give me spades; You have slain your first and mighty boar In the classic Croyden Forest shades; You have heard the Northern rivers roar, You have seen the Southern Everglades.

You have creeled your Highland yellow trout Where the Scottish moorlands call us back; You have left me puzzled and in doubt Over tropic specimens I lack-- Sphinxes that I know not, huge and stout; Butterflies, un-named, in blue and black.

Well, we've had a jolly run, my son, Through a sunny world has lain our trail Trodden side by side with rod and gun Under azure skies where white clouds sail; --Send our journey is not nearly done! Send the light has not begun to fail.

Envoi

Yet, that day you tread the trail alone, With no slower comrade to escort On the path of spring with blossoms sown, You may deem me not so bad a sort, Smile and think, as one who would condone, "He was sure a perfectly good sport."

R. W. C. Broadalbin; 1916.

*DOG-DAYS (1914)*

The mad dog of Europe Yelped in the dog-days' heat; To his sick legs he staggered up Swaying on twitching feet; Snarled when he saw the offered cup, And started down the street.

All hell has set his brain aflame; All Europe shrieks with dread; All mothers call on Mary's name, Praying by shrine and bed, "For Jesus' sake!"--Yet all the same Each sees her son lie dead.

"On Guard!" the Western bugles blow; "Boom!" from the Western main; The Brabant flail has struck its blow; The mad dog howls with pain But lurches on, uncertain, slow, Growling amid his slain.

They beat and kick his dusty hide, He bleeds from every vein; On his red trail the Cossacks ride Across the reeking plain While gun-shots rip his bloody sides From Courland to Champagne.

Under the weary moons and suns With phantom eyes aglow, Dog-trotting still the spectre runs Yelping at every blow 'Til through its ribs the flashing guns And stars begin to show.

The moon shines through its riven wrack; On the bleached skull the suns Have baked the crusted blood all black, But still the spectre runs, Jogging along its hell-ward track Lined with the tombs of Huns.

Back to the grave from whence it came To foul the world with red; Back to its bed of ancient shame In the Hunnish tomb it fled Where God's own name is but a name And souls that lived lie dead.

*THE GIRL PHILIPPA*

*FOREWORD*

On the twenty-eighth of June, 1914, the Archduke Francis Ferdinand, heir to the Austrian throne, was murdered by a Serb in Serajevo, the capital of Bosnia. The murder was the most momentous crime ever committed in the world, for it altered the geography and the political and social history of that planet, and changed the entire face of the civilized and uncivilized globe. Generations unborn were to feel the consequences of that murder.

Incidentally, it vitally affected the life and career of the girl Philippa.

Before the press of the United States received the news, Sir Cecil Spring-Rice, the British Ambassador, had been notified of the tragedy, and a few minutes later he was in secret conference with the President.

The British Ambassador knew what he wanted, which was more than the administration knew, and at this hasty and secret conference he bluntly informed the President that, in his opinion, war before midsummer had now become inevitable; that there was every probability of England being drawn into a world-wide conflict; and that, therefore, an immediate decision was necessary concerning certain pending negotiations.

The truth of this became apparent to the President. The State Department's ominous information concerning a certain Asiatic Empire, the amazing knowledge in regard to the secret military and political activities of Germany in the United States, the crass stupidity of a Congress which was no better than an uneducated nation deserved, the intellectual tatterdemalions in whose care certain vitally important departments had been confided—a momentary vision of what all this might signify flickered fitfully in the presidential brain.

And, before Sir Cecil left, it was understood that certain secret negotiations should be immediately resumed and concluded as soon as possible—among other matters the question of the Harkness shell.

About the middle of July the two governments had arrived at an understanding concerning the Harkness shell. The basis of this transaction involved the following principles, proposed and mutually accepted:

1st. The Government of the United States agreed to disclose to the British Government, and to no other government, the secret of the Harkness shell, known to ordnance experts as "the candle shell."

2nd. The British Government agreed to disclose to the United States Government, and to no other government, the secrets of its new submarine seaplane, known as "the flying fish," the inventor of which was one Pillsbury, a Yankee, who had offered it in vain to his own country before selling it to England.

3rd. Both Governments solemnly engaged not to employ either of these devices against each other in the event of war.

4th. The British Government further pledged itself to restrain from violence a certain warlike and Asiatic nation until the Government of the United States could discover some method of placating that nation.

But other and even more important negotiations, based upon the principle that the United States should insure its people and its wealth by maintaining an army and a navy commensurate with its population, its importance, and its international obligations, fell through owing to presidential indifference, congressional ignorance, the historic imbecility of a political party, and the smug vanity of a vast and half-educated nation, among whose employees were numbered several of the most perfect demagogues that the purlieus of politics had ever germinated.

This, then, was the condition of affairs in the United States when, on the nineteenth of July, the British Ambassador was informed that through the treachery of certain employees the plans and formula for the Harkness shell had been abstracted.

But the British Embassy had learned of this catastrophe through certain occult channels even before it was reported to the United States Government; and five hours after the information had reached Sir Cecil Spring-Rice, two young men stepped aboard the Antwerp liner Zeeduyne a few seconds before the gangway was pulled up.

With the first turn of the steamer's screws the wheel of fate also began to revolve, spinning out the web of destiny so swiftly that already its meshes had fallen over an obscure little town thousands of miles distant, and its net already held a victim so obscure that few except the French Government had ever heard of the girl Philippa.

The two young men who had come aboard at the last moment were nice-looking young men. They carried tennis bats, among other frivolous hand luggage, and it was rumored very quickly on board that they were two celebrated New Zealand tennis champions on their way to the international tournament at Ostend.

It was the Captain who first seemed interested in the rumor and who appeared to know all about the famous New Zealand players, Halkett and Gray.

And this was odd, because when Halkett and Gray came aboard their names did not figure on the passenger list, no stateroom had been engaged for them, and the Captain of the Zeeduyne had never before laid eyes on either of them.

But he may have heard of them, for that morning the British Embassy had called him on the telephone, had talked for twenty minutes to him, and had arranged for him to hold his steamer if necessary. But it had been necessary for the Captain to hold the Zeeduyne for ten minutes only.

The voyage of the Zeeduyne was calm, agreeable, and superficially uneventful. There was much dancing aboard. Halkett and Gray danced well. They had come aboard knowing nobody; in a day or two they seemed to have met everybody. Which urbanity is not at all characteristic of Englishmen. New Zealanders, it seemed, were quite different.

The ocean being on its best behavior nearly everybody appeared triumphantly on deck. There were, however, several passengers who maintained exclusiveness in their staterooms; and among these were two German gentlemen who preferred the stateroom they shared in common. However, they took the air sometimes, and always rather late at night.

Evidently they were commercial gentlemen, for they sent several wireless messages to Cologne during the voyage, using a code of their own which seemed to concern perfumes and cosmetics and, in particular, a toilet soap known as Calypso soap.

In return they received several wireless messages, also apparently in some commercial code, and all mentioning perfumes and Calypso soap.

And a copy of every code message which they dispatched or received was sent to the Captain of the Zeeduyne, and that affable and weather-reddened Belgian always handed these copies to the tennis champions of New Zealand, who spent considerable time poring over them in the only spot on the steamer which was absolutely safe from intrusion—the Captain's private quarters.

Then, in their turn, as the steamer drew nearer to the Belgian coast, they sent a number of wireless messages in private code. Some of these messages were directed to the British Consul at Maastricht, some to the British Ambassador at Brussels, some to private individuals in Antwerp.

But these details did not interfere with the young men's social activities on board, or with their popularity. Wherever Halkett and Gray walked, they walked surrounded by maidens and pursued by approving glances of relatives and parents.