Punch, or the London Charivari | Page 8

wagging his forefinger at her, "no jealousy. You ought to be glad to have someone really good in the party. Good funny men aren't to be found just anywhere."
"But we don't know that you are a good funny man," said Margery.
"Of course you don't," said John; "I've never had a chance to prove it. For years I have been kept in the background by your family. I'm never allowed to make a joke, and if I do nobody laughs. This is my chance. I'm going to be in the limelight now. I shall be the life of the party, and it's no good trying to stop me. In fact," he finished confidentially, "I shan't be surprised if I take it up professionally. You should have heard me laughing upstairs."
"But, John," began Margery.
"Sh--!" said Cecilia; "it's no use arguing with him while he's in this mood. That's all right, John. You shall be everything you like. But as you've selected such a lot of parts for yourself perhaps you'll suggest what we can do with Alan."
"Ah," said John; "Alan! Yes, he's a problem, certainly. If he had any voice, now. I'm not sure that we want him at all. Could he do a clog-dance, do you think?"
"Don't worry," I interrupted; "I've thought of a fine part for me. All the best concert parties have a chap who sits in the corner and does nothing but look miserable. I could do that splendidly."
"That's quite true," said John approvingly; "it tickles the audience, you know, to see a fellow looking glum while everyone else is having hysterics at the funny--at the humourist. It isn't as easy as it looks, though, Alan. I shall keep saying things to make you laugh, you know. You'll find it jolly difficult to keep looking miserable once I get going."
"Not at all," I said. "That is, I shall do my best to keep serious. I shall try not to listen to you being funny."
John looked at me and considered whether it was worth following up. He decided it was not.
"I daresay he'll do," he said loftily to Cecilia; "the fellow has no sense of humour anyway."
* * * * *
[Illustration: "So long, old chap! I'm off to Charing Cross." "Hospital, I presume."]
* * * * *
Commercial Modesty.
"This system develops such valuable qualities as:--
--Forgetfulness --Mind Wandering --Brain Fag --Indecision --Dullness --Shyness --Timidity --Weakness of Will --Lack of System --Lack of Initiative --Indefiniteness --Mental Flurry."
Advt. in Sunday Paper.
* * * * *
"It is announced that, starting with next week, 'Ways and means' and 'Common Sense' will be amalgamated."
Evening Paper.
Will the Government please note?
* * * * *
"Army biscuits, suitable for bed-chair cushions. 3s. reserve. ----'s Auction Sale."
Provincial Paper.
They seem to have lost something of their war-time hardihood.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Small Boy. "I SAY, ISN'T THERE ANYTHING WITH A BIT MORE BUCK IN IT THAN THIS LEMONADE?"]
* * * * *
PUSS AT THE PALACE.
[The Daily Telegraph, in a report of the Cat Show at the Crystal Palace, remarks that "the cat has 'come back' as a hobby."]
O ALL ye devoted cat-lovers, Ere spending the cheques you have cashed, Leave a trifle for tickets to enter the wickets That ope on the Temple of Pasht.
For to-day in the Palace of PAXTON Cats gathered from every zone-- Manx, Persian, Sardinian, Chinese, Abyssinian-- Are now being splendidly shown.
The names of the winners and owners Inspire me with joy and delight; E.g., Blue-eyed Molly, John Bull (Madame Dolli) And Snowflake, the champion white.
And then the adorable kittens! Too high-bred to gambol or skip, With names that are mighty, like Inglewood Clytie, Or comic, like Holme Ruddy Pip.
It is pleasant to learn Mr. SHAKESPEARE'S Success with his Siamese strain, For his namesake the poet, so far as we know it, Held "poor, harmless" puss in disdain.
Yes, the cat has "come back" as a hobby, Oh, let us be thankful for that, For it might be the coon or the blue-nosed baboon, Or the deadly Norwegian rat.
* * * * *
THE FINE OLD FRUITY.
Wine merchants must be kind men. So many of those who have sent me their circulars this Christmas-time have announced that they are "giving their clients the benefit of some exceptionally advantageous purchases which they have made."
But it is not the humanity of wine merchants of which I wish to speak. It is the intriguing epithets which they apply to their wines. And I have entertained myself by applying these to my relatives, an exercise which I find attended by the happiest results.
"Fine old style, rich," is, of course, obvious. It applies to more than one of my Victorian uncles. "Medium rich" to a cousin or so. More subtle is "medium body." This must be Uncle Hilary; he takes little exercise nowadays and his figure is suffering. Soon he will be "full-bodied"