The Sunny Side eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 252 pages of information about The Sunny Side.

Fair was the porridge in the days of peace,
  And still more fair the cream and sugar taken;
Plump were the twin poached eggs, yet not obese,
  Upon their thrones of toast, and crisp the bacon—­
I face their loss undaunted, unafraid,
If only I may keep my Marmalade.

An evening press without Callisthenes;
  A tables Staff; an immobile spaghetti;
A Shaw with whom the Common Man agrees;
  A Zambra searching vainly for Negretti;
When spades are trumps, a hand without a spade—­
So is my breakfast lacking Marmalade.

O Northcliffe (Lord)!  O Keiller!  O Dundee! 
  O Crosse and Blackwell, Limited!  O Seville! 
O orange groves along the Middle Sea! 
  (O Jaffa, for example) O the devil—­
Let Beef and Butter, Rolls and Rabbits fade,
But give me back my love, my Marmalade.


“Why don’t you write a war story?” said Celia one autumn day when that sort of story was popular.

“Because everybody else does,” I said.  “I forget how many bayonets we have on the Western Front, but there must be at least twice as many fountain-pens.”

“It needn’t be about the Western Front.”

“Unfortunately that’s the only front I know anything about.”

“I thought writers used their imagination sometimes,” said Celia to anybody who might happen to be listening.

“Oh, well, if you put it like that,” I said, “I suppose I must.”

So I settled down to a story about the Salonica Front.

The scene of my story was laid in an old clay hut amid the wattles.

“What are wattles?” asked Celia, when I told her the good news.

“Local colour,” I explained.  “They grow in Bulgaria.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure that these ones did; I don’t know about any others.”

Of course more local colour was wanted than a mere wattle or two.  It was necessary therefore for my Bulgarians always to go about in comitadjis.  Celia thought that these were a kind of native trouser laced at the knee.  She may be right.  My own impression is that they are a species of platoon.  Anyhow the Bulgars always went about in them.

There was a fierce fight which raged round the old clay hut in the wattles.  The Greeks shouted “[Greek:  Tupto tuptomai]” The Serbs, for reasons into which I need not enter, were inarticulate with rage.  With the French and British I had, of course, no difficulty, and the Bulgars (fortunately) were content with hoarse guttural noises.  It was a fierce fight while it lasted, and I was sorry when it was over, because for the first time I began to feel at home with my story.  I need not say that many a Bulgar had licked the wattles before I had finished.

Unfortunately something else happened before I had finished.

“What do you think?” cried Celia, bursting into my room one evening, just when I was wondering whether my readers would expect to know more of the heroine’s native costume than that it was “simple yet becoming.”

Project Gutenberg
The Sunny Side from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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