Punch, or the London Charivari | Page 5

people ughing with a great splash into the Serpentine makes me feel ill. When I think of them afterwards sitting lazily on the bank and letting the blizzard dry their hair, basking in the snow for an hour or two and reading their morning paper, and every now and then throwing a snowball or a piece of "ugh" into the water, I hate them. Nobody ought to be allowed to bathe in the Serpentine on days like this except the swans, who paddle all night to hold the ice at bay. I wonder if I could get a swan and keep it in the water-jug.
Half-past eight? Yes, I did hear, thank you. I am really going to get up very soon now.
What I am going to do is to make one tiger-like leap--tiger-like leap, I say--for the bathroom door and turn the hot-water tap full on until the whole of the upper part of the house is filled with steam.
I am going to do it this very moment. I--yes--ugh.
Now I come to think of it a tiger-like leap would be quite the wrong idea. I am glad I did not do it. Tigers are not cold when they leap. "Tiger, tiger, burning bright." Tiger, tiger----
What did you say? A quarter to nine? What? And the water-pipes frozen? Are they?
Thankugh.
K.
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"WIDOW KISSED BY BURGLAR.
ADVENTURE WITH A SOFT-VOICED GIANT.
The gurglar took nothing away with him." Scots Paper.
"Gurglar" seems the mot juste.
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"---- CLUB. Monthly medal competition. Returns:--
Gross. Hep. Nett. F. Slicer 92 8 84 W. H. Putter 103 16 87"
Provincial Paper.
If only the Judicious HOOKER had been playing he might have downed them both.
* * * * *
[Illustration: AT THE NATURAL HISTORY MUSEUM.
Mother (trying to calm her lachrymose offspring). "'ERE, ALBERT--LOOK AT THE PRETTY FISHES."]
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NEW RHYMES FOR OLD CHILDREN.
THE PIG.
The way in which he eats and drinks Is so extremely crude That nearly everybody thinks The pig enjoys his food.
But when I see how very fast, Without one single chew, He gobbles up his huge repast, I'm sure it isn't true.
Far nobler than your Uncle Joe, Who simply sits and sits, Revolving, gluttonous and slow, The more attractive bits;
Far nobler than your Uncle Dick, Who likes the choicest food, And, if he doesn't have the pick, Is very, very rude;
The pig has not a word to say To subtleties of taste; He eats whatever comes his way With admirable haste.
In fact, the pig may well resent The insult to his line When certain of the affluent Are said to eat like swine.
A. P. H.
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"None are much better than others, and some are much worse."--New Zealand Paper.
We fear the writer is a pessimist.
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TAFFY THE FOX.
[Mr. HORATIO BOTTOMLEY has complained of the war-time efforts of the POET LAUREATE, and desires the appointment of a national bard whose mind is more attuned to the soul of the British nation. Recent political events are not of course a very inspiring subject for serious verse, but we have tried to do our feeble best here in faint imitation of one of the manners of Mr. JOHN MASEFIELD.]
Safe and snug from the wind and rain In a thick of gorse with a tranquil brain The fox had slept, and his dreams were all Of the wild Welsh hills and the country's call; He slept all night in the Wan Tun Waste, He woke at dawn and about he faced, He flexed his ears and he flaired the breeze And scratched with his foot some poor wee fleas; He sat on his haunches, doubted, stood; To his left were the lairs of his native wood, The deep yew darkness of Cowall Itchen; He flaired, I say, with his nostrils twitching Till he smelt the sound of the Fleet Street stunt And over the hillside came the Hunt.
* * * * *
Over the hillside, clop, clip, clep, And the dappled beauties, Ginger and Pep, Live Wire, Thruster, Fetch Him and Snatch Him, They were coming to bite him and pinch him and scratch him, Whimpering, nosing, scenting his crimes, The Evening News and The Morning Times. "Yooi! On to him! Yooi there!" Hounds were in; He slunk like a ghost to the edge of the whin; "Hark! Holloa! Hoick!" They were on his trail.
* * * * *
The huntsman, Alfred, rode The Mail, A bright bay mount, his best of prancers, Out of Forget-me-not by Answers. A thick-set man was Alf, and hard; He chewed a straw from the stable-yard; He owned a chestnut, The Dispatch, With one white sock and one white patch; And had bred a mare called Comic Cuts; He was a man with fearful guts. So too was Rother, the first whip, Nothing could give this man the