Punch, or The London Charivari | Page 6

and maintain one early-closing day per week, suitable to the neighbourhood, and to generally assist in obtaining time for rest and recreation, and promote better and healthier conditions for hairdressers."]
[Illustration: HAIR AND HEXERCISE; OR, TAKING THE HAIR ON A 'OLE 'OLIDAY.]
Dear BOB,--There's a stir in our noble Profession. The hope of the Hairdresser, silent so long, At last, like most others, is finding expression. We've started, dear BOB, and are now going strong. Early Closing's our object, which means that on one day We want to shut up shops and scissors at five! Perhaps Saturday's best, BOB, as coming next Sunday-- Don't seem asking _much_, if they'd keep us alive.
You cannot imagine how grinding our trade is-- Long hours, and long waits, BOB, when custom is slack! When the premises hold one old gent and two ladies, 'Tis hard for twelve chaps to be kept on the rack. To knock off at five on a Saturday eases Our week's work a little. One evening in six Ain't more than the Public can spare--if it pleases-- If only its hours 'twill conveniently fix.
When a swell wants a shave, a shampoo, or a clipping, He likes to drop in at his pleasure, no doubt; But surely he'd not keep us scraping and snipping To save him from being a trifle put out! If he'll but get fixed before five on a Saturday, We poor Hairdressers may get just a chance Of an hour or two's pleasure or rest on the latter day; Prospect to make many dreary eyes dance!
And yet some object to this small "Early Closing," I wish they could know what it is to chop, chop, When your feet are one ache and your eyes drawn to dozing And you're sick of the sight and the smell of the shop! When a whiff from the meadows appears to come stealing Above all our washes, and powders, and soaps; And the whirr of the brush which revolves near the ceiling Seems pain to our ears and seems death to our hopes!
True, most of the Masters will yield to our yearnings, A lesson I think to the few who stand out! I wager the change won't diminish their earnings, W. REED and A. SUTTON know what they're about,-- Our President, BOB, and our Hon. Sec. Address 'em At "fair Piccadilly," 6, Swallow Street, W. Hairdressers' Assistants unitedly bless 'em, If you, BOB, or others can help us, I'll trouble you!
'Tis long, my dear BOB, since I sent you a letter, And this you'll admit is a practical one. We Hairdressers wish our condition to better, And get our fair share of rest, leisure, and fun. One Five o' Clock Close every week is our plea, BOB, Not much for the slaves of scrape-scrape and snip-snip! The fairness of it I'm convinced you will see, BOB, And so should the world, says
CARACTACUS CLIP.
[_Mr. Punch_, who knows how much his own personal comfort is dependent upon the adroit ministrations of the "Sons of the Shears," cordially seconds the appeal of his old Correspondent.]
* * * * *
A CASE OF FRENCH LEAVE.--The Gallic Fleet have gone to Cherbourg--as if they had not had enough "cheers" before leaving England!
* * * * *
[Illustration: DIFFERENCE OF OPINION.
Jones (_reading aloud_). "'A TRUE, GOOD, NOBLE WOMAN IS EVER READY TO MAKE HERSELF A DOOR-MAT FOR THE MAN SHE LOVES!'... AH, DOLLY, THOSE ARE THE WOMEN WHO MAKE THE BEST WIVES!"
_Mrs. J._ (_who is not of this type_). "YES, DEAR--AND THE _WORST HUSBANDS!_"]
* * * * *
MR. PUNCH'S ANTI-LABOUR CONGRESS.
_MR. PUNCH (IN A MARINE LOTOS-LAND) SINGS HIS SEA-SIDE VERSION OF THE LAUREATE'S LOVELY "CHORIC SONG."_
I.
There is a slumber here that softlier falls Than forty-winks where dull, dull Bills they pass; Oft have I drowsed within those dreary walls, Where brays the pertinacious party ass. Here sleep more gently on the spirit lies Than where the SPEAKER tells the Noes and Ayes. The wave-wash brings sweet sleep down, from the summer skies, Here laps the azure deep, And through the weed the small crabs creep, And safe from prigs who plague and nymphs who peep, Sagacious Punch reclines and woos benignant sleep.
II.
Why are we weighed upon with Politics, And, utterly fatigued by "bores" and "sticks," While all things else have rest from weariness? All things have rest: why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are "such clever things!" And make perpetual moan, Still from one "Question" to another thrown? Gulls, even, fold their wings, And cease their wanderings, Watching our brows which slumber's holy balm Bathes gently, whilst the inner spirit sings "There is no joy but calm!" Why should Punch only toil, the top and crown of things?
III.
How sweet it were, dodging the urban stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half dream! To