  Vol. 109. August 31, 1895. LOCAL COLOUR. LOCAL COLOUR. Place—South Parade, Cheapenham-on-Sea. Edith. "Mabel dear, would you get me Baedeker's Switzerland and the last Number of the World." Mabel. "What do you want them for?" Edith. "Oh, I'm writing Letters, and we're in the Engadine, you know, and I just want to describe some of our favourite Haunts, and mention a few of the People who are staying there—here, I mean." Taking the Waters.—Are the Falls of Foyers worth preserving? That depends on another question—What are the Falls of Foyers? They are the finest cascade in Bonny Scotland, and the B. A. C., or British Aluminium Company, intends to take all the water out of them to turn its machinery with. Not, mind you, a mere inappreciable rill, but the whole river! "Ma Foi-ers!" exclaimed Mr. Punch in his best French, when he read the correspondence on this subject in the North British Daily Mail, the Glasgow Herald, and other northern papers; "shall this vandalism be allowed? No! Foyers must be preserved for-years to come!" It seems that a Dr. Common, a director of the B. A. C., has been explaining to the Inverness Field Club that the Falls won't actually be destroyed—only there will be no water in them! Yet, by his name, this director should defend all common rights. We hope he is rare. The B. A. C. (or Brazen Assurance Company) must learn the A B C of respect for natural beauty, or Mr. Bryce will have to introduce an "Access to Waterfalls Bill." There is yet time to save the chief Wonder of Loch Ness; and a year hence let us trust that the following Wordsworthian stanza will apply:— Full many a glorious scene has Punch Saved by his winsome page; And from the B. A. C. this Fall, A lovely, powerless, hopeless, thrall, Was rescued by the Sage. So let it foam! And time will come When every tourist raider At this Cascade will give three cheers For every good Casc-aider! An Old Crusted Port.—The "Battle of the Mails" is again raging in Ireland. Queenstown seemed to have conquered, but, according to the Cork Daily Herald, the partisans of Southampton are insidiously working in favour of that port, because it is believed that "a Unionist Government with a powerful majority will be less amenable to Irish pressure than the late Home-Rule Government was." And the very idea of the Post Office breaking through the contract with the Cunard Line, the Dublin Steam Packet Company, and the London and North-Western Railway is denounced as a monstrous offence. That is all right, and it is refreshing to find so much respect for contracts still surviving. In postal and steamer matters Ireland is Conservative to the backbone. She won't doff her "coat of mail" in a hurry. Home-Rulers and Unionists are united on this point: "one touch at Queenstown makes all Erin glad." The South Wales Daily News tells us that "policemen on bicycles are a very common thing in Cardiganshire." THE VERNACULAR EVOLUTION OF THE "FORCE." When great Sir Robert first enroll'd the band, As "Peelers" they were known throughout the land: Then fickle fancy, changing e'er her hobby, Metamorphosed the nickname into "Bobby." As years went on—'tis known to be no "whopper"— Alluded to was Bobby as a "Copper," And, nowadays, the people call him "Slop": Nor is the matter likely here to stop. For now we learn, that our once simple "Peeler" Is up-to-date and has become a "Wheeler"! THE OLLENDORF GUIDE TO KNOWLEDGE. THE PERSISTENT HAIRDRESSER. The middle-aged neighbour is going to the fine shop of the persistent hairdresser. Why is the middle-aged neighbour going to the fine shop of the persistent hairdresser? Because the middle-aged neighbour's wife (i.e. the wife of the middle-aged neighbour) has ordered him to have his hair cut. What will the persistent hairdresser tell the middle-aged neighbour while he is having his hair cut? That the hair of the middle-aged neighbour (i.e. the middle-aged neighbour's hair) is all coming off. What will the middle-aged neighbour say? The middle-aged neighbour will say nothing, but he will attempt to read the gigantic journal of the prosperous newspaper proprietor. Will the persistent hairdresser make any further remark? Yes, the persistent hairdresser will inform the middle-aged neighbour that his hair is thin on the top of his head, that the remaining hair is very dry, that it would be well if the middle-aged neighbour would give immediate attention to the subject (i.e. the subject attention give immediate). What will the middle-aged neighbour say? The middle-aged neighbour will say nothing, but will continue the attempted reading of the gigantic journal of the prosperous newspaper proprietor. Will the persistent hairdresser persevere in his exertions to attract the attention of the middle-aged neighbour? He will persevere by brushing the hair of the middle-aged neighbour by machinery. Will the brushing of the hair of the middle-aged neighbour by machinery prevent the further reading of the gigantic journal of the prosperous newspaper proprietor? It will have that effect, and the middle-aged neighbour will remonstrate. Will the persistent hairdresser repeat his observations about the thinness of the hair on the top of the head of the middle-aged neighbour? He will, and the observations will be received in silence. Will the persistent hairdresser then recommend "the Blisterscalpholine" as a remedy? The persistent hairdresser will recommend "the Blisterscalpholine" as a remedy, saying that it may be obtained in bottles at half-a-crown and four-and-six. Will he urge the purchase of "the Blisterscalpholine" in bottles at four-and-six, in preference to bottles at half-a-crown? He will, saying that the former contain four times as much "Blisterscalpholine" than the latter (i.e. four-and-six four times "Blisterscalpholine" half-a-crown bottles contain as much). Will the middle-aged neighbour say that he wishes to be bald? The middle-aged neighbour will say so with superfluous emphasis (i.e., in phrases of superabundance). Will the persistent hairdresser declare that "the Blisterscalpholine" can be advantageously used as a hair-wash by those desirous of becoming bald? The persistent hairdresser will make this declaration. Why will the persistent hairdresser sound the praises of "the Blisterscalpholine" so loudly? Because the persistent hairdresser is the sole manufacturer of "the Blisterscalpholine." Will the middle-aged neighbour purchase a bottle of the persistent hairdresser? Yes; the middle-aged neighbour will purchase a bottle, if the middle-aged neighbour has an account with the persistent hairdresser, and he (i.e. the persistent hairdresser) will put it (i.e. the bottle of "Blisterscalpholine") in his (i.e. the middle-aged neighbour's) bill. If the middle-aged neighbour uses "the Blisterscalpholine," what will he do in six months? The middle-aged neighbour will purchase a wig. EN ROUTE FOR THE HORSE GUARDS. EN ROUTE FOR THE HORSE GUARDS. ["In assisting to carry out the plans of War Office reform sketched by the Hartington Commission, Lord Wolseley will have an unequalled opportunity of connecting his name with a monumental achievement, and, at the same time, of establishing upon a firmer foundation the efficiency and the welfare of the British Army, which, we are well assured, are the objects he has most sincerely at heart."—Daily Paper. ACCOMMODATING ACCOMMODATING. Old Lady. "Now then, what do you want?" Joe the Tramp. "I ain't pertickler, Lady. What 'av' yer got?" ROBERT BURNS TO THE RESCUE. [The Falls of Foyers, near Loch Ness, are menaced by the projected proceedings of an Aluminium Company.] "Among the heathy hills and rugged woods The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods, Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream resounds. As high in air the bursting torrents flow, As deep recoiling surges foam below, Prone down the rock the whitening stream descends, And viewless Echo's ear, astonished, rends. Dim-seen, thro' rising mists, and ceaseless show'rs The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding low'rs. Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils, And still, below, the horrid cauldron boils—" The above never-finished fragment was written by Burns, with a pencil, standing by the Fall of Fyers (now called Foyers), near Loch Ness. Shade of Robert Burns, loquitur:— O "brither Scots," and is it thus, For all your patriotic fuss O'er names and sic-like trifles, Ye can stand by whilst soulless Trade, With greedy pick, and grubbing spade, Old Scotia's charms so rifles? How well the hour my heart recalls, When, fired by all the Muses, I strove to honour Foyers Falls! But now my song refuses Its singing, swift-springing, At sight of Scotia's charms, My song now is wrung now With patriot alarms. That I, "for poor auld Scotland's sake, Some usefu' plan or beuk could make, Or sing a sang at least," Was aye my wish. But, Scotland dear, What is this shameful news I hear, That racks your poet's breast? That ruthless commerce, spreading wide, Will stain the shores of Ness, And turn those mossy floods aside I sang—with some success? That Beauty and Duty— It sure must be a hum!— A Scot still can blot still, For—Aluminium! I know my country's love of "brass." 'Tis loth to let a bawbee pass, A saxpence bid go bang. Yet "Caledonia stern and wild," Rather than see these Falls defiled, Should bid gross gain go hang! Fancy those "rocky mounds" replaced By refuse-heaps—alack!— And all the "heathy hills" defaced By smoke and chimney-stack! A tunnel?—Each runnel, In river and cascade, Seems shouting, and flouting The claims of tasteless Trade. And shall a private company In interests of mere £ s. d. Rob Ness of Beauty's dower? Shall Scotland in new-born stupidity Pander to sordid Trade's cupidity To get cheap water-power? Monopoly tap the torrent-stream, And "viewless Echo's ear" Be harried by the hideous scream Of railway whistles near? I'm firÈd, inspirÈd! The Muse, though mild and meek, Now dashing, eye-flashing, Assures me I must speak! Scotland may list her Burns's song And stay, ere all too late, a wrong To beauty and herself. She's not so fast midst Mammon's thralls As sacrifice her noblest Falls To paltry greed of pelf. If she'll not heed the patriot's cry, She'll heed the poet's jingle. The prospect fires the Ploughman's eye, And makes his heart strings tingle. Ye're no men, nor wo-men, As Scots ye're false and fickle, Should Trade thus degrade thus The Falls to a poor trickle. Where are ye, bardlings, full of fire, Who tune to-day a Scottish lyre? Where is your sounding line? No stirring stanza can ye spare? Faith, Sirs, this aluminium scare Should waken all the Nine! Ah! could I hand my lyre to Lang, Loch Ness should echo loud To such a strain as ne'er yet rang In ears of Mammon's crowd. Wake "Wullie"! 'Twon't sully Your fame, you grand old Scot! For what land like Scotland Should raise your ire red-hot? In France female enterprise knows no limit and no law. Celestine Jolivet of Belleville—who has a jolly "vay" about her—discovered a son of Mars asleep. "Not hers to reason why hers but his togs to try," so she promptly relieved the slumbering warrior of his uniform and transferred it to her own person, and—doubtless to "cover" the loan—left her own petticoats by the side of the sleeping soldier. Poor Piou-piou had a rude awakening, and was compelled to don the girl's garments, in which unwarlike garb he reached the barracks. Celestine was apprehended, and got fifteen days. Offenbach would have given her eighteen months. GEORGIE'S AND JACKY'S HOLIDAYS. (An Extract from the Note-book of Mr. Barlow the Younger.) I am quite sure that, had my revered grandsire survived—as a matter of fact, he passed away some time ago, leaving a valuable connection—he would have moved with the times. In his day he certainly did his best to amuse his pupils by telling them agreeable and instructive stories, but he did not actually join in their sports. I, his descendant, pursue the even tenor of my way on a different tack. I have two lads staying with me during the vacation. Their parents are residing in the Indian portion of the British empire and the Australian colonies. They are bright, intelligent boys, full of high spirits, and yet gifted with an amount of common sense much in advance of their comparatively tender years. Georgie Barnwell is generous to a fault. He will borrow sixpence of a friend to-day, and give half of it to a beggar to-morrow. His companion, Jacky Rush, is more economical. He, too, will borrow sixpence to-day and supplement it, if possible, by a further loan on the morrow. Consequently John is richer, as a rule, than George. "See, Sir," said Rush to me a morning or so since, "what I have got. Thanks to the kindness of some acquaintances with longer purses than my own, I have acquired a fishing-rod." "Which I trust you will not allow him to use," put in Barnwell, impulsively. "He is considerably my junior, and I fear that, were he to fish, he might be drawn by the strength of the current into the water, and possibly be drowned. Such a calamity would be a terrible thing to his parents. What would make such a blow the more acute would be the expense of the telegram conveying the lamentable news to India. On these grounds, revered Sir, I trust you will forbid him the use of the fishing-rod." "I believe the apprehensions of my comrade are unnecessary," said sensible Jacky. "I feel convinced, however, that they spring from the best motives, as he refused to have anything to do with the purchase of the rod, on the score that he thought I would be tempted to use it. Now that I have bought it with my own money——" "Your own money," observed Georgie, with a smile. "With money that has passed into my possession," amended the younger lad, "I shall be glad to sell the rod at a considerable discount if such a financial arrangement can be entertained by my well-intentioned companion." "I am sincerely grieved," replied Barnwell to this invitation, "to have to say 'No.' A rather extensive purchase of Japanese caramel cannon-balls has entirely exhausted my pecuniary resources. But I am willing to meet Jacky half way. As he has bought the fishing-rod, I shall be glad to hold it for him when we get to the landing-stage, where we propose commencing our search for the denizens of the vasty deep." It will be noticed by the observant that up to this point the conversation had been conducted in well-chosen words. "Literary elegance in diction" is one of the many extras that appear in the bills delivered quarterly (and payable in advance) to the parents of my cherished charges. To my surprise and annoyance Jacky, instead of retorting with courtesy, merely placed his right hand level with his face, extended the fingers, and allowed the thumb to touch the nose. "You will see, Sir," said Georgie, much shocked at this vulgarity, "that my companion at times is lost to all sense of shame. If you are kind enough to turn aside for a moment, I shall be glad to accomplish a feat known amongst the prize fighters of the earlier part of the present century as punching some one's head." I complied with my pupil's request, and for some little while there were sounds not entirely unsuggestive of lamentation. Sounds which seemed to cause no little amusement to an observant 'Arry. Our walk to the place of fishery after this little incident was uneventful. When we reached the spot, a rough-looking mariner was in attendance with what subsequently appeared to be a bag of bait. "Morning gents, all," said the sailor, respectfully; "I have got what you want. But be careful how you touch them, as they are nasty customers." This warning was necessary, for Georgie (who is of an inquiring character) had placed his hands amongst the worms with results. He uttered an exclamation of pain. "Ah, I thought so!" cried the mariner, looking at my charge's travel-stained palm; "you have been bitten by a blue doctor. Well, all you have to do is to climb up to the moat under that there castle and find some mote weed. Put the weed on the spot and the pain will go like magic." "But its quite a mile up hill," observed the still depressed Barnwell. "What shall I do while I am going? It hurts me fearfully." "My dear Georgie," said Jacky, who had now reassumed his customary demeanour, "pray be guided by the advice of this worthy and experienced person. I feel sure that what he recommends is salutary. And as to what you should do while mounting the undoubtedly lofty heights leading to the castle's moat, I would recommend a policy of cheerful submission. Bear it, my dear boy, with fortitude, and smile while you perform the heroic operation. During your absence, I myself will hold the fishing-rod. This concession should tend to assuage your anguish. And, in conclusion, let me hazard the hope that when you return from the moat with your hand convalescent, after an application of moat weed, you will find that I have had good sport. I trust to be in a position to present you with either a specimen of a salmon, a sole, a flying fish, or a tittlebat—of course, any one or all of them for a suitable consideration." Georgie waited no longer, but hastened away after kicking in the direction of his cherished companion. "It's a painful bite when you ain't accustomed to it," observed the mariner. "Not that I mind 'em. Look here, all them's bites and stings." And the man stretched forth his hand, which was certainly covered with a variegated assortment of scars. "What did that?" asked Jacky, with a stronger feeling of curiosity than an appreciation of grammar. "That was done, Sir, by a spiteful cat," replied the mariner. "It is a nasty worm is the spiteful cat. Cut them up into halves and they will bite you still. But there, the fish is awful fond of them! Why, these here blood-clotters are nothing to them, no more are these lug worms." With this, the man threw down what appeared to be a small but, for its size, corpulent sea-serpent. "It's no good," he exclaimed, scornfully. "The fish won't touch any of that lot after they've lost their shape. Look at that one, it's foolish to call it a worm now, ain't it? Now I will take this blue doctor and bait the line for you. See, I run the hook through the head to the hip. That will fetch a mullet. It leaves me half. But you must take a whole one for a codling." By this time Jacky was standing on the brink of the stage, all impatient to cast his line into the water. The bait, encumbered by some nobs of lead, fell with a jerk into the sea. "You had better take a seat, young master," said the experienced mariner; "sometimes you get bites by the dozen, at others nothing comes near you for hours. It's all a toss up. And the fish, too, they are fanciful. Your dabs and your codlings are demons for rock worms. But the mullet and whiting want something a bit more tasty." "If that is the case," said Jacky, who had been from time to time watching his bait, "do you not think you could find something more tempting than this attenuated worm, which, so far as I can judge, has already been diminished in the water of half its stature." "Well, yes, Sir; I could put on a spiteful cat. If a fish will touch anything, he will touch spiteful cat." Then with admirable skill the mariner selected a bait, and in a twinkling had the hook refurnished. "I shall be glad to be successful," said Jacky, "as I notice that my cherished companion, Georgie, has obtained the healing weed, and is rapidly returning from the Castle's moat. He will be pleased to find that while he has been in pain I have been enjoying a delightful sport, with no little reward attached to it. If I were sufficiently fortunate to capture a salmon, no doubt I would find a ready market for it in London, and thus acquire a sum of money sufficient to meet all my present necessities, and even to pay back a portion of the sums that have, during a period extending over years, been so kindly advanced to me." Unwilling to waste my time, and finding the occupation of watching Jacky's fruitless efforts to rob the mighty deep of its piscatorial inhabitants somewhat tedious, I had jotted down these few notes. It was at this moment that Jacky, who had been ineffectually attempting to charge his hook, suddenly gave me the bait to hold. I had thus at length an opportunity of making the close acquaintance of "spiteful cat." The immediate result of the introduction was the abrupt and painful termination of my literary labours. "Mine again."—The Liverpool Courier tells a curious story of a female miner in "one of the chief Welsh gold mines." She is, we are informed, "a girl fair to look upon, a colonial, bright, common-sensible, wayward, musical, a linguist, altogether talented, and something of a new woman, yet not. She is linguist enough to attempt the Welsh language, perhaps that she may thereby mine the more." Admirable descriptive diction this! The lady gold-seeker must be not only a miner, but a Minerva, and if only she succeeds in discovering a few nuggets she will be able (as a wag might suggest) to purchase a pallas to live in. CABBY; OR, REMINISCENCES OF THE RANK AND THE ROAD. (By "Hansom Jack.") No. 1.—MY MATES AND MY FARES. "Me and my Fares!" There's a takingish title for one o' them books as they call "Rummynicences!" Don't you imagine "Romance on the Rank" must mean dry-as-dust yarns about Strikes, Fares and Licences. "Treacle," "Long Benjy," and "Pineapple Bob," "Old Curly," "The Countryman," "Ginger," and "Chicking," Not naming myself, if it comes to good stories, could give Sherlock 'Olmes arf a length and a licking. Rum names? Lor! that's nothink! You look down a list, in the Sporting Snips say, of the 'orses in running, And any cab-rank could knock 'oles in the lot, for sheer oddity, jumble-up, fancy and funning. Many a nickname's a yarn in itself, or leastways suggests one to them in the know of it. Cabby is like Sir George Lewis; 'e knows London's seamiest side, though 'e mayn't make no show of it. Take "Coddy Cowslip," now! Meaningless muddle, that name, I've no doubt, to a fare trim and toffy. But git old C. C. on the patter one mornin', say over a Billingsgate pheasant and coffee. Twig 'is old countryfied dial a-wrinkle with sly, knowing wickedness! Lor! it's a beano! And yet "Coddy"'s got such a chawbacon chuckle, 'e passes—with them as ain't fly—for a greeno. What 'e don't know about cockney conniverings, and country collyfogs, isn't worth knowing. Why, 'e's been everythink, ploughboy and street-preacher, betting-man, jock, "all-a-blowing-a-growing," Pedlar and poacher, 'orse-dealer, and 'earse-driver! Yes, and 'is name seems to tell the whole story To us as 'ave 'eard it in "Cowslip's" soft snuffle, when over a toddy-tot, all in 'is glory. What I say is this: If a Cabby can't see, and take stock of, the life of this wonderful City, Perched 'igh on 'is box, with arf town for 'is fares, and 'is eye on the other arf, well, it's a pity. I've drove Billy Shikspur's Seven Ages, I have, and a tidy lot more as the Swan never thought on; For cabs wasn't up in the days of Queen Bess; though that Jaques as a Growler I think might 'ave caught on! I've known his fair moral in stror bands and capes, 'stead o' cloak and trunk 'ose. Ah! If William 'ad driven A 'ansom ten year—and I guess for the chance all them Venice canals and their boats 'e'd ha' given!— What plays 'e'd ha' found ready-made to 'is 'ands! Was it Dizzy as called us the London Gondōlers? Well, 'e knowed a thing or two, Benjamin did, 'bout Romance; a lot more than your stick-in-the-'olers. Romance? I could reel you out yarns by the hour, as I've dropped on, or 'eard of from others, since cabbing; But it's only when Bobby is fair on our track, or there's perks in the wind, as we're given to blabbing. Trot 'em out in the Shelter sometimes to our pals; some on 'em, I tell you, are creepy and twittery, Just the right stuff for them "'Aporths of All Sorts" the scrap-'unting parties as calls theirselves littery. Take railway-stations, theayters, and 'orsepitals, them three alone, and, for comic or tragic, Imagine the drammers a driver gets glimpses of! Peeps through town-winders, too! Tell you, it's magic, The way we spot mysteries, caught through a curtain, cock-eyed, from our perch nigh the second-floor level, In spins through back streets, or the sububs. The world and the flesh, my dear Sir,—with a dash of the d——l! Me and my fares, and my mates on the Rank, make a pretty big world. To a man as loves 'osses, A Cabby's life isn't arf bad on the whole, spite of bilks and bad weather, hard bosses and losses. The grip of the reins, and the flick of the whip, 'ave a fair fascination to fellows built my way, And dulness—that cuss of the poor!—doesn't 'unt you in spinnin' through Babbylon's 'ighway or byeway. Dulness! To drowse on the Rank for two hours, or more, waiting a fare, isn't sparkling or thrilling, And then, p'r'aps, a stingy old mivvey with luggage, as takes yer two miles, full, and tips a bare shilling! But lively turn-ups are most times on the tappy, or just round the corner. Cab, Sir! Piccadilly? Now if that chalk-face, with the penny-slot mouth, doesn't 'ide a grim story or two, send me silly! OUR BOOKING-OFFICE. Now that the World has taken his wife to the sea-side or the Continent, there is not much demand for heavy literature—especially as the cost of the over-weight in luggage is something considerable beyond Calais—and consequently trifles light as air have become the popular brain-food of the multitude. In the absence of his noble and respected chief, an Old Retainer of the Baron has read Telling Stories, originally published in the St. James's Gazette. The Old Retainer can honestly declare that the stories are not only worth telling, but being re-told—in their present form—they are just the things to amuse the traveller weary of watching the hat-box on the carriage-rack, or the third-rate mountains fading into distance on the Rhine. He will turn to them for recreation when he has tired of sight-seeing. They are, without exception, short, crisp, and interesting. The Old Retainer would not think of leaving town without them. They would be more welcome to him than his armour, and quite as necessary as his weather-worn umbrella. The Veteran Warder, still acting on behalf of his revered, but far-a-field, captain, has peeped into The Times Atlas, a magnificent volume, worthy of the best traditions of Printing House Square. The Aged Watchman has sampled the maps, and found them absolutely accurate in the smallest particulars. The Atlas has caused the Elderly Sentry to think seriously of quitting his guard, and journeying to the far North. He has not yet decided upon his destination. At the moment of writing, his inclination gaily suggest "Greenland," while his banking-account sternly whispers "Southend or Herne Bay." In the meanwhile, the Years'-stricken Looker-out remains at his post, and, with a hand trembling with age and emotion, proudly appends a signature not his own. TOWN VERSUS COUNTRY. (An Intercepted Letter.) My dear Bob,—I have got your note, sympathising with me on my sad fate of being "tied to town" in August. Don't cry while you are in the wood. I can assure you that bricks and mortar are just as pleasant as green leaves. Not that we do not have the latter. Hyde Park is at its best, and Battersea is beautiful beyond compare. And mind you, my lad, it is unnecessary to stroll through either in the height of May Day fashion. The House is sitting, and the Irish Members are quite equal to keeping both sides on the move. And at night we have plenty of gaiety, not only in the Strand, where The Shop Girl is as popular as ever, but at the Lyric too, where The Artist's Model is a pattern of prosperity. Then there are the halls of dazzling delight. Titania, at the Alhambra, and Faust, at the Empire, leave nothing to be desired save a lot more of them. So, my dear young friend do not condole before you have reason. London is going well and strong, and, while this happens, I can dispense with the jocular joys of Shrimpington-on-Sea. Yours, cheerfully, M'Carthy's Motto (the wish being father to the thought).—"Sic transit gloria Redmondi!" UNLUCKY SPEECHES UNLUCKY SPEECHES. She. "Oh, Mr. Sorney, I am so grateful to you for your thoughtfulness in writing so promptly to tell me of poor Harry's accident!" He. "Pray don't mention it—I was very glad indeed to have the opportunity of doing it!" "THE CHILDREN'S COUNTRY HOLIDAYS FUND." It will be remembered that a fortnight since appeared in Punch (Vol. 109, No. 2823) an article entitled "The Country of Cockaigne," written as a reminder that the above excellent fund was not only in existence, but sorely in need of contributions. Since then the appeal has been answered by the charitably disposed, and acknowledged by the proper official at head-quarters. It is gratifying to learn that the paper published in these pages has been of signal service to the young clients for whom author and artist plied pen and pencil with so much goodwill. It is not customary to publish "serious" contributions from voluntary contributors in these columns, but the following extract from a letter received from the Secretary of the "Children's Country Holidays Fund" is such pleasant reading that an apology for its insertion seems superfluous:— "'The Country of Cockaigne' has caused such a pressure of work here, that I am afraid the ordinary duties of gratitude have been long delayed. May I say that we, and here I speak for the London children, are very grateful indeed. "It was scarcely eleven o'clock last Wednesday when a man came in with £1 to send Jimmy and Florrie away, and there were several more on the same errand at lunch time. Since the article appeared we have received £1,334 11s. 6d.—of this over £500 has been sent with special mention of Punch, and considerably more than this is undoubtedly due to it.... One father, speeding away to Switzerland with his family, read Punch in the train, and scribbled a note in pencil that he wanted to help before going on his holiday, and wrote a cheque for £7—at Dover station." Then the writer says that many of the contributors to the Fund wanted to know whether Jimmy and Florrie were real children, and concludes with an expression of "heartiest thanks to all concerned." Of course, Jimmy and Florrie are children of the brain, but they are none the less real on that account. They are types of thousands. A correspondent suggests that the article is calculated to do so much good that it should be reprinted. This would be impracticable. However, it is possible to repeat "the Moral"; and this being so, we give it:— "The offices of the Children's Country Holidays Fund are at 10, Buckingham Street, Strand, and contributions should be made payable to the Hon. Treasurer." HUMPTY-DUMPTY'S SONG. (Adapted from "Through the Looking-glass" to the Political Situation) Humpty-Dumpty Diplomacy. ["The Sultan, it seems, has not yet taken to heart the solemn warning addressed to him by Lord Salisbury, and approved by the leaders of the Opposition.... The Sultan alone turns a deaf ear to the friendly counsel which it is so greatly to his interest to accept."—The Times.] "The piece I am going to repeat," said Humpty-Dumpty to Alice, "was written entirely for your amusement. It goes thus"— I sent a letter to the Turk, Bidding him stay his horrid work. The Turk delayed two months or three, Then sent an answer back to me. The Turk's belated answer was, "I cannot do it, Sir, because——" I sent to him again to say, "It is your interest to obey." He answered, with a sleepy grin, "Why, what a hurry you are in!" I urged him twice, I urged him thrice. He would not listen to advice. I took a rod, 'twas large and new, Fit for the work I had to do. Namely, that lazy Turk to tickle; And then I put that rod in pickle. The Turk he wrote to me and said, "My agents are asleep in bed." I wrote to him, I wrote it plain, "Then you must wake them up again!" I wrote it very large and clear; I had it shouted in his ear. But he was very stiff and proud; He said, "You needn't shout so loud!" And he was very proud and stiff; He said, "I'll try and wake them, if——" I put his "answer" on the shelf: I said, "I'll wake them up myself!" He cried, "No good! The door is locked, I've pulled, and pushed, and kicked, and knocked. And when I found the door was shut I tried to turn the handle, but——" There was a long pause. "Is that all?" Alice timidly asked. "That's all,—for the present," said Humpty-Dumpty. |
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