THE WALLYPUG’S OWN It was shortly after this that the Doctor-in-Law, hearing what a vast fortune might be made in literature, decided to start a magazine of his own. image the doctor-in-law was editor After a lot of argument it was thought best to call it The Wallypug’s Own, as the name was considered a striking one. The first “There will be a good opportunity for some of your poems appearing at last,” hinted the Doctor-in-Law to the Rhymester, which so delighted the poor little fellow that he set to work at once upon a number of new ones. A. Fish, Esq., contributed a very learned article on the subject of “The Prevalence of Toothache amongst Fish: its Cause and Treatment”; while the great attraction of the number was an historical article by the Wallypug on the subject of “Julius Caesar,” illustrated by his Majesty himself. As a special favour, the original drawing was presented to me by his Majesty, and I am thus enabled to reproduce it for your benefit. His Majesty confided to me that parts of it were traced from a picture which appeared in the Boys’ Own Paper some time ago, but of course we did not tell everybody that. image from “the wallypug’s own” The essay itself was quite original, and was worded somehow like this: “Julius Caesar was a man, and he lived in Rome. He came over to conquer Britain because he heard The Doctor-in-Law was editor, and arranged a number of competitions, and in order to enter for them you had only to send two shillings in stamps, while the prizes were advertised as follows: First prize, £1000 a year for life; second prize, thirty-six grand pianos and fourteen bicycles; third prize, a sewing machine and six cakes of scented soap. The prizes were to be awarded for the first correct answers received by post, but the Doctor-in-Law took good care to write three sets of answers himself, and put them in our letter-box a half-an-hour before the first post arrived, so that nobody got prizes but himself. He made a good deal of money, too, by pretending to tell your fortune by the creases in your collar. All you had to do was to send an old collar and fourteen penny stamps, and you would receive a letter in reply similar to this: “You are probably either a male or a female, The greatest novelty, however, which the Doctor-in-Law introduced in his new magazine was his system of telling your character by your watch and chain. There was no fee charged, and all you had to do was to send your watch and chain (gold preferred), and the Doctor-in-Law would tell your character, quite correctly. It generally was as follows: “You are a silly donkey, for no one but a donkey would think of sending his watch and chain to a stranger, and if you imagine that you will ever see it again, you are greatly mistaken.” The Rhymester only had one poem in after all, as, when it came to the point, the Doctor-in-Law charged him a guinea a verse for printing it, and the poor Rhymester could not afford more than one poem at that rate. THE NEW ROBIN. image The North wind doth blow, Yet up in yon tree image Look! as true as I live, But the bird doesn’t care, “What ridiculous cheek,” The poor Rhymester was very disappointed at not being able to publish more of his poems, so the Doctor-in-Law, to console him, allowed him to contribute “Hats this season are principally worn on the head, and may be trimmed with light gauzy stuff wobbled round the crown mixed up with various coloured ribbons, and bunches of artificial flowers and fruit. “Artificial vegetables are not much worn, although a cauliflower or two and a bunch of carrots, with a few cabbages, would form a striking and novel decoration for a hat. If this trimming is considered insufficient, a few brightly coloured tomatoes stuck round the brim might be added, and would render the head-gear particularly ‘chic.’ “Hats for the theatre should be worn large and handsomely trimmed, but for the economically inclined—a last year’s clothes basket trimmed with art muslin, which may be purchased of any good draper at 1-¾d. a yard, cut on the cross and tucked with chiffons, would form a sweetly simple hat, and if tied beneath the chin with an aigrette, and the front filled in with sequins, it would readily be mistaken for one of the new early Victorian bonnets which continue to be worn by the upper housemaids in most aristocratic families. “A charming walking costume suitable for the Autumn may be made of shaded grenadine, trimmed with buckram pom-poms, made up on the selvedge edge.” There was a lot more nonsense of this kind which I did not at all understand, but which some lady friends who understood these things made great fun of. You will be surprised, no doubt, to hear that in a weak moment I allowed myself to be persuaded into contributing a little experience of my own. The Rhymester told me that it was shockingly bad rhyme, but I think that he was jealous because the Doctor-in-Law published it. Anyhow, here it is, so you can judge for yourself. I call it HE and I and IT. Oh HE was a Publisher
IT had a capital sale, And people I scarcely had met,
image my friends all turned tail Yes, HE published IT in the Spring, But Autumn has come and gone,
Oh! rich is the Publisher The girls now all treat me with scorn— Even One-and-Nine and General Mary Jane were smitten with a desire to rush into print, and I overheard them concocting a tragic Love Story in the kitchen, and they were highly indignant later on, because the Doctor-in-Law would not accept it. You can hardly wonder at it though, for it really was too bad for anything. It was called “The Viscount’s Revenge,” and in it several characters who had been killed in the first part of the book kept cropping up all through the story in a most confusing manner, while One-and-Nine and image the literary housemaid COMMERCIAL PROBLEMS. Why doth the little busy bee And can you tell me why, good sir, Why flow’rs should bloom about the place I cannot meet a single cow While ducks and hens, I grieve to find,
I’ve found a way at last, and though |