  [Mr. Joseph Whitaker, founder and chief proprietor of Whitaker's Almanack, died on the 15th May, aged 75.] Gone! His praises to rehearse Might engage a friendly verse. Time, for whom he did so much, Surely dealt with gentle touch With this man, of lucky star, Who the famous calendar, Schemed on an ingenious plan, Gave to ever-grateful man. Millions now would feel the lack Of the wondrous Almanack. To adapt Ben Jonson's phrase To a worthy of our days, One might say of our lost brother, Death; ere thou hast slain another Good and useful as was he, "Time shall throw his dart at thee." Champions.—Sir Edward Grey, M.P., ought to be a great acquisition at a dance if his prowess as a tennis champion is any indication. "The power with which he often finished the ball" was recently highly praised. His opponent, Mr. Gribble, seems a dangerous man among the ladies, having at Cambridge "won the singles." Quite a Pasha among the "Love sets!" But he could only take one single out of the singles he won. Odd.—"Doctor Greef" is advertised to give three pianoforte recitals. If his performance is equal to what we hear of his promise, then those will experience considerable pleasure who "come to Greef." Small but Harmonious Football Team for Summer.—"The Shinner Quartette." WHAT OUR ARCHITECT HAS TO PUT UP WITH. WHAT OUR ARCHITECT HAS TO PUT UP WITH.Our Architect (spotting Sixteenth Century gables). "That's an old bit of work, my friend!" "Oi, Sir, yeu be roight theer, that you be!" O. A. (keen for local tradition). "You don't know exactly how old, I suppose?" "Well, noa, Sir; but Old it be! Whoi, I'se knowed it meself these noine Years!" ODE TO AN OVERCOAT.(By a Shivery Person, in Spring-time.) "Cast ne'er a clout till May be out," The old Scotch proverb says. Thee, did I doff, "Immensikoff," For three most sultry days. But wind and dust, in gruesome gust, Search bosom, back and throat; And to my nose I button close My fur-lined Overcoat. The Merry May has such a way Of blowing hot and cold, That fur and cloth I'm always loth Away, in Spring, to fold. Gr-r-r! There's a blast! I'll hold thee fast Dear friend on whom I doat; Nor lay thee by till—say—July, My own, my Overcoat! Legal Note.—It is presumably unfortunate for the prisoner-at-the-bar when, as is constantly announced in the papers, "Mr. So-and-So, Q.C., will appear to defend Snooks." Hard on Snooks when his Counsel only appears to defend him. But what a sweet surprise for the unhappy Snooks should the Counsel, who only "appears to defend him," really defend him and be victorious! "Vox Clamantis."—The voice of the Claimant is heard once again. No joke; no Wagga-Waggery. He is publishing his "Entire Life and Full Confession" in the People newspaper. According to his own statement, his claim to the Tichborne estates might be described, not only as a fraud, but as a "Wapping" one. TO A COUNTRY HOST.(A Candid Answer to a Hospitable Invitation.) You're kind enough to bid me spend The "week-end" at your country seat, You offer tennis and a friend You feel I'm sure to like to meet. I hope you will not think me rude— You're very kind to ask me down— But if the simple truth be told, I much prefer to stay in town. You tell me that the ground is bare, And only gets by slow degrees Recovered from our Arctic spell, That leafless still are all the trees. Well, here, in spite of smoke and soot, And all the bustle and the hum Of men and things, we don't await The Spring—because the Spring has come. Each morning as I go to work I take my 'bus to Marble Arch, And thence amid a wealth of flowers, And air perfumed with odours, march To Hyde Park Corner. Tell me where— I honestly should like to know— The much belauded "country" can Produce a comparable show? Our grass is green, though yours is brown. On every tree the lovely bud Is bursting into lovelier leaf, The Spring runs madly in one's blood. To leave such joys I can't consent, Too great a struggle it would be, But just to show you don't resent These lines—come up and stay with me! HOW (OF COURSE) IT IS NOT DONE.(Imaginary Sketch of impossible Incident.)
Editor. We can't find room for everything. Chief Sub. Quite so, Sir; still it seems a pity to slaughter this telegram from the front. Editor. Does it make very much? Chief Sub. No, Sir. If you will allow me, I will run through it. (Reads.) "Yesterday the Loamshire Regiment, headed by its Commander, Colonel Snooks, made one of the gallantest charges on record." Editor. Sure it was Snooks? Chief Sub. Oh yes. We verified it in the Army List. Snooks went out with the Second Battalion when they were ordered to the front. (Continues reading.) "The soldiers dashed forward over the Tam-Tam river, and up the steep sides of the Yah-Yah mountains, carrying all before them." Editor. Sure of those names? Chief Sub. Yes, Sir; verified them on the map. (Resumes reading.) "Nothing could withstand the rain of lead and the row of steel. The Chutnese attempted to use their 'pungarees'—a rude sort of pruning knife—but without the slightest effect. Uttering their weird yells of 'Tomata, tomata,' and beating their drum-like vessels known over here as 'bang-wangs,' they faltered, floundered and fled." Editor. Sure that those names are correct? Chief Sub. Quite, Sir. We verified the local colouring with Moke's Six Months in Chutney on the top of a Camel. Editor. Very good. Is there much more? Chief Sub. About a third of a column, describing the taking of the native village, the storming of the stockade, and the bivouac by moonlight after the victory at Pennavilla. Editor (after consideration). Well, it might give us an effective line for the bill. (A whistle is heard: Editor listens at a speaking-tube.) Afraid we must sacrifice it. Manager tells me there is another rush of advertisements, so space is more precious than ever. You had better boil it down into a three-line paragraph. Chief Sub. No need to do that, Sir. If there's a scarcity of room we had better give the original telegram. Editor. The original telegram? Chief Sub. Yes, Sir; from which we have worked up the extended account. Here it is. (Reads.) "Loamshire, after a skirmish, has reached Pennavilla." That, with a suitable heading, will just complete the column. Editor. Quite so. [Scene closes in upon the arrangement. 'Was he very much cast down after he'd spoken to Papa?' "Was he very much cast down after he'd spoken to Papa?" "Yes. Three Flights of Stairs!" A MOAN IN MAYTIME.By a Weary Waltonian. Oh, Maytime is a gay time for the artist and the dangler, The pretty girl, the parson, and the scout; And it ought to be a time of rosy rapture for the angler, In the capture of the delicate May trout. But though Smudge, R.A., "feels fine" with his six upon the line, And the dangler "does" the galleries with delight; Though white-chokered clerics muster amidst eloquential fluster, And our girls salute the Season sweet and bright; Though the "Cattylog" vendors shout, and cab-runners scout and tout, The disciple of Old Izaak is not gay, For although the "Grawnom" 's off, and the trout at "Alders" scoff, The May Fly—drat it, does not rise in May! |
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