THE ISLANDERS.

Evening Star, Issue 11677, 8 February 1902, Page 3

THE ISLANDERS.

IUJDVALD KIPLING’S 'J I.UMPET CALL

TO CONSCRIPTION

Rudyard Kipling’s poem ' Tho Islanders.’ wbich occnpie.s a column and a third in ' The Times’ of January 3, is a strong plea for conscription, full of scathing, strenuous lines, scarifying the people who spend their tune in becoming experts in sport, and declaring that uuv form of compulsory service is impossible among a free people. . ■ • To made a

sport of your shrunken hosts and a toy of your armed men,” says tue poet.

Then were the Judgments loosened; then was

your sliamo revealed. At the hands of a little people, few but apt

in the field. Yet yc were saved by a remnant. Sous of the sheltered city—unmade, un-

handled, unmeet— Ye pushed them raw to the. battle as ye picked them raw from the street.

But ye said : “ Their valor shall show them ” ; Rut ye said: “ The end is close ” ; And yo sent them comfits and pictures to help them harry your foes, And ye vaunted your fathomless power, and yo flaunted your iron pride Ere ye fawned on the Younger Nations for the men who could shoot and ride! Then ye returned to your trinkets; then ye contented your souls With the flannelled fools at the wicket or the muddied oafs at the goals.

Then Rudyard Kipling impresses upon ns the need that every man must be

Broke to the matter of war. Soberly and by custom taken and trained for

the same: Each man bora in the island entered at youth to the game— As it were almost cricket, not to be mastered

in baste, But after trial and labor, by temperance, living ebastc. And this is bis answer to our protest: But yo say: “It will mar our comfort! Ye

say It will minisb our trade: Do you wait for the spattered shrapnel ere ve learn how a gun is laid?

Will ye pitch some white pavilion, and lustily even the odds With nets and hoops and mallets, with racquets and bats and rode f Then the poet puts the stinging question; Teraphs of sept and party and wise pavement Gods — These shall come down to tbe battle and snatch you from under the rods? From the gusty flickering gun roll with viewless salvoes rent, And the pitted hail of the bullets that tell not whence they were sent. Finally lie tells us, the people, On your own heads, in your own hands, the sin and the saving lies-

An Irish priest one day saw a parishioner going into a public-house., and called out to him: “ Paddy, where are you going?" “Into the house for a drink, your reverence.’' " Then if you do, mind this—the Devil is going in along with you." " Troth, an’ if he is that makes no diff’rence,” said Paddy, unmoved. “Ho ABB* pp for himself, for I’ve only tbe jgtmH «Bß*giaßs about me.”