April 3, 191 5 
LAND AND WATER 
THROUGH THE EYES OF A WOMAN 
By MRS. ERIC DE RIDDER 
The Gentle Art of Argument 
WHAT an argumentative race we are becoming ! have argued about Ireland. 
We canarguealmostevery hour of the day about have argued about every stone of Constantinople, though 
some controversial point or another. Even 
those people who never had an opinion of their 
own — or if they had were too timid to voice it 
— have rushed into the fray. Should racing continue as usual, 
ought there to be such a thing as fashion, should we have 
conscription, is the censorship too strict, or, on the other 
hand, ought we to have no 
news at all ? Everybody 
has different opinions ; no- 
body is shy about making 
them heard. Many people 
have no wish to listen to 
anybody's ideas but their 
own. The result is that 
every one is talking at once, 
and many a gathering that 
set out to be a quiet and 
friendly occasion has come 
to a very strained close. 
To my way of thinking, 
people with determintd 
views and penetrating 
voices ought to come under 
military discipline. They 
take an unfair advantage 
of the helpless mortal 
placed next to them at the 
luncheon or dinner table. 
There is no getting away. 
The martyrdom must be 
endured for at least an 
hour, and often longer. 
.\nd the worst of it is that 
the people who talk most 
are those who know least. 
The information is never 
first hand. They have 
always heard some wonder- 
ful story from somebody 
who knows somebody else, 
whose cousin has the key to 
all thesecrrtsof State. The 
amazing tale is launched ; 
some equally intrepid soul, 
with an equally rasping 
/oice, challenges it. Then 
argument is let loose. Some 
I have argued about Bosnia. I 
have 
Copyntia, Madam Lallu CkarUt LADY LOVAT 
A cWacleritlic p'>r(rut of La'^y Lovat, who it one of Lord Ribbieidale'i 
pictureique daughter!. Her hu>ban<i, (he fourteen h Lord Lovat, ii 
the founder aad Honorary Colonel of Loval'i Scouti, which were 
originally raited for lerTice during the South African War 
people talk all the time, 
hardly daring to draw breath in case their flow of ideas should 
be interrupted ; others take advantage of anything 
approaching a lull. There is more than a hint of flat contra- 
diction, there is certainly a growing acidity of tone. Somebody 
with a noble effort of tact manages to change the subject. 
All is peace for a few minutes and then, alas and alack ! we 
are on the rocks of controversy again, though nobody can tell 
how exactly it has come about. It is really enough to put 
an end to all attempts at hospitality. We can never be 
certain that our guests will not come to metaphorical blows 
over one or another of the burning questions of the day. 
On Talking and Thinking 
The truth is that the war has made everybody think 
harder than they have ever done in all their hves before, and 
everybody has an opinion of their own. To some this is such 
a novel experience that they burst into argument as easily as 
a bird bursts into song. The worst of it is that from an 
arguer to a bore is a very small step Also, that the habit of 
argument grows, until it becomes an almost mechanical one. 
We surely do not want to emerge from this war professional 
controversialists. It would be a bad omen for future peace, 
even when this present clashing of arms has ceased. 
" Do you know, I have really got into a positive habit of 
saying ' I don't think so at all,' "said an attractive Irishwoman 
to me the other day. 
" But 1 thought you never argued," I said, hoping that 
this charming trait in her charming self was not to be totally 
abolished. 
"Well, I never have till now," she admitted, shaking a 
pretty head upon which one of the new veiled sailor hats was 
prettily poised. " But since we crossed to England I have 
done nothing but argue. I have argued till I am hoarse. I 
1 don't know it, and have never been near the place. I 
even talked about war and warfare with a wounded warrior, 
and shrieked contradiction into his ear till my voice went." 
" How lucky for him," I murmured in the traditional 
stage aside. 
" I don't think so at all," said she ; then stopped and laughed. 
" No," I said, after a 
i befitting pause, "as a 
matter of fact, neither do 
I." 
" Besides," said my 
friend, wrinkling up her 
nose in a way she nlone 
amongst women can make 
attractive, " he was really 
only very slightly 
wounded ! " 
The Invaluable Motor Car 
One of the most unos- 
tentatious yet one of the 
most useful forms of work 
is that being done by the 
Ambulance Column of the 
London district. The idea 
of this Column originated 
in the days before war, 
when some far- seeing 
people were working at 
Red Cross training and 
often getting laughed at 
for their pains. It is an 
entirely voluntary work, 
carried out by means of 
motor ambulances and 
private motor cars. The 
object is to meet the trains 
of woimded as they arrive 
at the London stations, 
and convey them from 
thence to the various 
hospitals. A fleet of private 
motor cars under the 
Column's direction have 
conveyed numbers of sick 
and wounded men, ever 
since our wounded first started to arrive back in London. 
Over 22,000 have already been helped in this splendid way 
and the total is a growing one with every day that passes. 
Mr. Lancelot Dent, and his wife, who is a tireless Red Cross 
worker, are the organisers, and their address is 83, Westboume 
Terrace. The services of the Ambulance Column are placed at 
the entire disposal of the War Office, and there is no other organi- 
sation of the kind. The process is a very simple one. As soon as 
the War Office knows that a train of wounded men is due to 
arrive in London they ring up Mr. Dent and give him particulars. 
Mr. Dent then calls up the motor cars at his disposal, and the 
soldiers, many of whom are in a terrible state from fatigue 
and wounds, are duly met. This is the only work of the kind, 
and the gratitude this work draws from our fighting men 
would be suiprising, did we not — many of us — know there is no 
more grateful soul on earth than disabled Tommy Atkins. He 
takes things very much as a matter of course in a general 
way. It is his job to fight, too sadly often it is his job to get 
wounded. But when he arrives back in London, travel- 
stained, worn, and frequently in sharp suffering, it is little 
short of a godsend to him to find a comfortable car, in which 
he can make the last lap of the journey along the streets to 
hospital. Many people, seeing the crying need for help, have 
lent their cars. But many more are urgently needed. With the 
horror of incessant casualty lists in mind, with glad pride in 
English pluck, heroism and endurance, many, no doubt — once 
they know of the Ambulance Column — will send their cars to 
help it. Mr. Dent's telephone number is Paddington 6054. 
The latest playing cards issued by Thomas De La Rue & Co., Ltd., 
have on the back a reproduction of Bert Thomas's now famous 
picture, " 'Arf a Mo', Kaiser." A proportion of the profits on each 
pack of cards on which the picture appears is being devoted to raising 
funds to send tobacco and cigarettes to soldiers at the front. 
