Reginald's Peace Poem

"Reginald's Peace Poem" by Hector Hugh Munro (commonly known by his pen name, Saki) is a satirical short story that explores the absurdities of societal norms and the often hypocritical attitudes towards war and peace. Featuring the character Reginald, a witty and flamboyant young man, the narrative unfolds as he delivers his unconventional views on peace, challenging conventional wisdom and exposing the contradictions in society's romanticized perception of warfare. Through sharp humor and keen observation, Munro critiques both the ideals and realities of human conflict, highlighting the folly in attempts to glorify or simplify complex issues.

• Short story

								
"I'm writing a poem on Peace," said Reginald, emerging from a sweeping
operation through a tin of mixed biscuits, in whose depths a macaroon or
two might yet be lurking.

"Something of the kind seems to have been attempted already," said the
Other.

"Oh, I know; but I may never have the chance again.  Besides, I've got a
new fountain pen.  I don't pretend to have gone on any very original
lines; in writing about Peace the thing is to say what everybody else is
saying, only to say it better.  It begins with the usual ornithological
emotion--

   'When the widgeon westward winging
   Heard the folk Vereeniginging,
   Heard the shouting and the singing'"--

"Vereeniginging is good, but why widgeon?"

"Why not?  Anything that winged westward would naturally begin with a
w."

"Need it wing westward?"

"The bird must go somewhere.  You wouldn't have it hang around and look
foolish.  Then I've brought in something about the heedless hartebeest
galloping over the deserted veldt."

"Of course you know it's practically extinct in those regions?"

"I can't help that, it gallops so nicely.  I make it have all sorts of
unexpected yearnings--

   'Mother, may I go and maffick,
   Tear around and hinder traffic?'

Of course you'll say there would be no traffic worth bothering about on
the bare and sun-scorched veldt, but there's no other word that rhymes
with maffick."

"Seraphic?"

Reginald considered.  "It might do, but I've got a lot about angels later
on.  You must have angels in a Peace poem; I know dreadfully little about
their habits."

"They can do unexpected things, like the hartebeest."

"Of course.  Then I turn on London, the City of Dreadful Nocturnes,
resonant with hymns of joy and thanksgiving--

   'And the sleeper, eye unlidding,
   Heard a voice for ever bidding
   Much farewell to Dolly Gray;
   Turning weary on his truckle-
   Bed he heard the honey-suckle
   Lauded in apiarian lay.'

Longfellow at his best wrote nothing like that."

"I agree with you."

"I wish you wouldn't.  I've a sweet temper, but I can't stand being
agreed with.  And I'm so worried about the aasvogel."

Reginald stared dismally at the biscuit-tin, which now presented an
unattractive array of rejected cracknels.

"I believe," he murmured, "if I could find a woman with an unsatisfied
craving for cracknels, I should marry her."

"What is the tragedy of the aasvogel?" asked the Other sympathetically.

"Oh, simply that there's no rhyme for it.  I thought about it all the
time I was dressing--it's dreadfully bad for one to think whilst one's
dressing--and all lunch-time, and I'm still hung up over it.  I feel like
those unfortunate automobilists who achieve an unenviable motoriety by
coming to a hopeless stop with their cars in the most crowded
thoroughfares.  I'm afraid I shall have to drop the aasvogel, and it did
give such lovely local colour to the thing."

"Still you've got the heedless hartebeest."

"And quite a decorative bit of moral admonition--when you've worried the
meaning out--

   'Cease, War, thy bubbling madness that the wine shares,
   And bid thy legions turn their swords to mine shares.'

Mine shares seems to fit the case better than ploughshares.  There's lots
more about the blessings of Peace, shall I go on reading it?"

"If I must make a choice, I think I would rather they went on with the
war."
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