  (By Dumb-Crambo Junior)
Cab-age. In a Somersetshire Inn.—Mr. Fitz-Archibald Smith (of London, to the Landlord).—Is there a hair-dresser in the village? I want to be shampooed and shaved. Landlord. Well, zur, I doant know much about the shampoodling, but our ostler's used to clipping horses. Would 'e like to try him? From the Poultry.—When does a hen like beer? When she has a little brood. Shocking Bad Husbandry.—Baby-farming. Latest from our Farmyard.—In the Fowl House.—"Left sitting." "A Little Learning."—Lady Tactful (visiting small farmer). I hope, John, the rain has not damaged the wheat. John. Ah, my lady, some of it will never grow; the wet has busted it. Mrs. John (who is "educated"). He should have said "bursted" my lady. That's what he means. Lady Tactful. Never mind. I think I prefer the old-fashioned pronunciation. One of your confounded pets Amateur Gardener (to goat-fancying neighbour). "Hi, madam. One of your confounded pets has got into my garden, and is eating my bedding-plants!" Neighbour. "Good gracious! I trust they are not poisonous!" marmaladed More Amalgamation.—Parish Councillor. "Wull, I do voate that the two par'shes be marmaladed." Chairman. "Our worthy brother councillor means, I understand, that the two parishes should be jammed together!" pew-opener up to Wickleham Church Village Gossip. "Did ye 'ere as owd Sally Sergeant's dead? 'Er what's bin pew-opener up to Wickleham Church nigh on fifty year." The Village Atheist (solemnly). "Ah! see what comes o' pew-openin'!" The Highest Possible Record of Character.—New Rector of Swaddlington (to Sexton). I see that the forge is close by the church, Grassmore. I hope that the smith is one of our friends? Sexton. Why, bless 'ee, yes, sir, 'e 's the only man in all the parish as settled over the Cesarewitch. Hint to the Managers of Poultry Shows.—Exhibit some henpecked husbands. A Black Country Synonym.—Ruling with a rod of iron.—Beating your wife with a poker. A Perfect Cure.—Town Man. "How jolly it must be, living down here in the country!" Country Gentleman. "Oh, I don't know. It's rather a torpid sort of life; time passes very slowly." Town Man. "Time passes slowly? You should get somebody to draw on you at three months!!" The Language of Flowers.—When the roses sweetly breathe a dew. Forbearance Forbearance.—Young Lady. "John, how long shall you be, as I want to practise?" Gallant Young Gardener. "Oh, goo yeouw on, Miss Amy—goo yeouw on! I sha'n't mind yar noise!" |
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