The great Exodus to Paris began in December, but it
reached its height in January. The mystery of the Foreign Office official
who had _not_ gone was cleared up by the discovery that he was the
caretaker, a pivotal man who could not be demobilised. Another exodus of a
less desirable sort was that of the Sinn Fein prisoners, which gave rise to
the rumour that the Lord Lieutenant had threatened that if they destroyed
any more jails they would be rigorously released. Sinn Fein, which refused
to fight Germany, had already begun to play at a new sort of war. Australia
was preparing to welcome the homing transports sped with messages of
Godspeed from the Motherland:
Rich reward your hearts shall hold,
None less dear if long delayed,
For with gifts of wattle-gold
Shall your country's debt be paid;
From her sunlight's golden store
She shall heal your hurts of war.
Ere the mantling Channel's mist
Dim your distant decks and spars,
And your flag that victory kissed
And Valhalla hung with stars--
Crowd and watch our signal fly:
"Gallant hearts, good-bye! _Good-bye!"_
[Illustration:
THE 1919 MODEL
MR. PUNCH: "They've given you a fine new machine, Mr. Premier, and you've
got plenty of spirit, but look out for bumps."]
February, a month of comparative anti-climax, witnessed the reassembling of
Parliament, fuller than ever of members if not of wisdom.
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