THE BOLD BURGLAR.

Observer, Volume XXXV, Issue 46, 24 July 1915, Page 3

THE BOLD BURGLAR.

"Don't Worry Me—l'm Tired."

ONCE upon a time there was a man. He was in good athletic nick, not old or feeble or half blind. He owned a house which contained many valuables, and he was proud of the house. He had gone to bed on© might in a happy and contented frame of mind, tor his stomach was full, his credit was sound and his health good. His wife rose on her elbow, and said: "George! George! there are burgla-rs in the drawingroom I can hear them throwing the family plate into a bag. Get up and shoot them!" Then George replied, through the thick sleep m his throat, "Why should I protect my own property? Why are not Jones of No. 16 and Smith of No, 17 and Robinson of No. 18 here to protect my property?" Which, of course, is absurd. The real George would show a leg and grab a gun (if he had one), and get out after the despoiler of his personal saoredl home. r * * *

Once upon a time there was an Empire that was being burgled and set fire to and trampled on by murderers of the worst kind. The lady with the trident mentioned it to the householders. Many of them got busy, and thousands did not. They slept while the murderers murdered their relatives. "It'll all come right in the end," murmured tihe sleepers in their sleep; "it always has oome right and always will." Then a shattered soldier oame back trom the field, and the lusty young sleeper said, "Hooray! Good on you, Tommy," but he had never done a thing ' to keep Tommy's legs on or his arms intact, to preserve his sight or to save him" from paralysis. "Bah!" said the man who hated to cross a muddy road, "One Britisher is equal to three Germans. That's possibly why a two-thirds proportion of Britishers leave a onethird proportion to do the work. "The-Turks don't like cold steel! save the sub-editor, just as if he habitually breakfasted on cold steed and pushed 15 inches of cold steel into his stomach with a twist every morning to show that Turks are cowards. All that matters is helping the men to push the cold steel niobody on earth hkes. In 1»99 everybody declared that the Boers (who had no bayonets) didn't like cold steel. In fact, people who won't come and stand' s:ill to be bayonetted don't please stay-at-homes at all. This paper took the liberty of saying, in August of last year,' Whea the war began., that it would force compulsory service on Britain—and so it will. It takes the liberty of saying now that New Zealand will sooner or later follow suit. We are fighting with a mere proportion of our power an enemy who has the power of life and death over every man in the German Empire. It "is simply scboolbook nonsense to

twaddle about conscripts being poorer soldiers than volunteers. When we say it we insult the incomparable French army and the army of the Czar of all the Russias, to whom the nations are looking with extreme anxiety.

Scrap and Biff are. eminent prizefighters. Biff hasn't trained at all. Scrap has trained perfectly. Scrap is three stone heavier, has a 1121bs. harder punch, and is in the pink of condition. So Biff announces: "One untrained boxer is equal to three trained ones. I'm going to lick the bide off Scrap, and I'll tie my right hand behindl me and wear hopples on my legs." In the twenty-fifth round Biff realises that it's up to him to take the thing seriously. Same in thie war. This Empire is realising that Scrap is in deadly earnest. Britannia Jnas prodded , her deeping Bull with the trident, and he has been training the fat off, but there are too few gladiators in the ring and too many people in, the coliseum chewing lotus and holding their thumbs down. It's your house that is going to be burgled if you dion't seize.the family gun, it's your private personal property that is going to burn if you don't get a move on, and it's your Empire that is going to fall round your ears like a pack of cards if you persist in believing that to save it is an amateur business anyhow, and a business that the other fellow can, do while you hang round and simoke cigarettes and twirl your thumbs.

Conscription is safety, and the only just way of prosecuting any war. There ]<s no justice in Jones dying in the trenches to keep Smith living in the billiard room, nor was there ever any reason, why you who owht to have been where you could push a bayonet for the Empire should conceive it to be a virtue to applaud the man who has done it. The Germans have admitted that m the field for Britain is "the flower of British manhodd." The flower; ot New Zealand manhood is in the field, too, augmented heavily with, young flowers from oversea and who all become "New Zealahders." Conscription would push, the weeds off, too The flower go themselves. They don't require to be pushed. Britain is fighting with and against conscript armies, and, as she is not striking a full blow, slbe is not doing her full' share on land. As it is Britain's heart that is being aimed at by the prize-fighter who has no hand tied behind his back, conscription will come as sure a® the eun will rise to-morrow morning, for the days of "blundering through" are past and gone. War is an exact science, not a holiday paistime.