Mr. Punch (welcoming Miss Spring-time). 'GLAD TO SEE YOU, MY DEAR! BEGAN TO THINK YOU WERE NEVER COMING!" "BETTER LATE THAN NEVER." Mr. Punch to Miss Spring: WELL, here you are at last, dear! Are the biting blizzards past, dear? And will you guarantee us from subjection to the plumber? Will no casual icy splinter from the serried spears of Winter Put a chill upon your smile, and spoil the promise of the Summer? We've been waiting worn and weary, till e'en cuckoo-songs sound cheery, And belated almond-blossoms show like roses of Cashmere : And the cockney chaunt now flowing, "All-a-blowing and a-growing!" Falls far sweeter than MASCAGNI upon London's longing ear. Where on earth have you been hiding? We are in no mood for chiding, But mid-April's rather late, dear, for what should have come in March! What malignant hocus-pocus has kept back the plucky crocus, Whose gold is scarce yet bursting from the beds the winds still parch? After that six weeks cold snap, dear, of fast frozen pipe and tap, dear, When back to barbarism and to bathlessness fate drove us, And we sicklier grew, and surlier, if you'd come a leetle earlier,Well, let bygones now be bygones! But O Spring sweet! an you love us, Come at last, dear-à la HERRICK, with such influence atmospheric As will slay the Influenza; with such fragrance from your flowers, As will knock Malaria silly; let your dear daffydown-dilly From our bodies drive bacilli, and the blight from out our bowers. Slay our Microbes, Spring, and bless us! Like a clinging Shirt of Nessus Morbid sickliness surrounds us in our lives, our books, our art. Oh, if sunshine and your breezes might but slay our soul-diseases, Oust the pestilent miasma that pervades the home, the mart; Neutralise the nauseous virus whose developments so tire us; Disinfect the New Parnassus, purge the New Pierian Spring, Bring us honesty and health, dear, why for all our wit and wealth, dear, We might love like Nature's lovers, and like Nature's poets sing. Ah! we need Spring's prophylactic!-But I'm getting too didactic For a sunny April morning, and a sweet young thing like you. My dear, the London Season, wrapped and furred out of all reason, Has been waiting, decked like Winter, with a nose-tip nearly blue; Waiting, waiting for your coming. Sweet as bees in clover humming Is the first sound of your footfall. Most spontaneous of passions Is the love for you, you darling. You will bring the thrush and starling, And the young leaves and the young lambs, and, what's betterthe Spring Fashions!!! So no wonder that she greets you with effusion when she meets you. 'Tis the hope of "rippin'" frolics and the thought of." trotty." frocks. ر But an old man's heart, my treasure, beats to quite another measure, Still my sympathies, dear Spring, are with the youngsters and with you. They are looking for love's playtime, and the merry, merry May-time, And the popular R.A. time, and the whole tohu-bohu! Bring the girls delights as dowry, may their social paths be flowery, And your silver drops the only tears they need to look upon. So they're wholesome, may they flourish; and may all Spring influence nourish True manhood and pure womanhood, and-there, my preaching's done! We need a true Spring Clean, sweet. Give us parks and gardens green, sweet, And laughter, like your bird-songs pure, un-satyr-like, though clever, Bless our boys, our girls, our babies, yes-and bring us back our JABEZ, 66 And we'll pardon your delay, and say 'tis better late than never! OPPORTUNITY LOST BY MR. JUSTICE HAWKINS DURING A RECENT CASE WHEN HIS LORDSHIP MIGHT HAVE PUT IT TO THE JURY.Gentlemen, what is the difference, or, as there has been no quarrel, let us say what is the distinction between a costumier and a butcher anxious to arrange his shop-front to the best advantage? Gentlemen, I will not detain you, it is this: The costumier meets out the dresses; the butcher dresses out' the meats. Gentlemen, you are discharged." To CHARITABLE CHESS-PLAYERS.-A good move at Easter time is cheque to his Bishop." 66 BLIND ALLEY-GORIES. BY DUNNO WÄHRIAR. (Translated from the original Lappish by Mr. Punch's own Ir affords me no ordinary gratification to be the humble instrument in rendering these exquisitely obscure prose-poems-reeking as they are with the self-consciousness of so magnificently triumphant an Ego-into the English tongue, though I am fully aware of the difficulty of preserving all the mystical unintelligibility of the original. DUNNO WÄHRIAR is perhaps the most re- "What are you seeking for so late ?" asked he;" your face looks so long and solemn, and your eyes are hollow and full of woe. Have you been having anything indigestible for supper?" "I am in trouble about Humanity," I replied; "for, though I loathe and despise them individually, collectively I love them dearly." "What's the matter with Humanity ?" asked the God, as he squatted amid the celery. "They are growing so deadly dull," I answered. "I am Young GARNAWAY, the Pessimistic Prose Poet, and it pains me to see how utterly they have lost their perception of the ridiculous, which is the backbone of real enjoyment. So I came out to see if by any chance 1 He belongs ('tis true) to the Literary Upper Crust, and is for the few rather than the many; while so absolute has been his fidelity to the principles of his art, that he has published every one of his works at a considerable pecuniary loss. Need I say more to ensure for him that respectful admiration which the public is ever ready to lavish upon anything they fail to understand? One summer evening, when the moon was at the full, and cloudshadows glided imperceptibly over the chimney-pots, as curses that have found no utterance and come dejectedly home to roost, I wandered into my back-garden, and caught the God of the Period napping in the moonshine on one of my celery-beds. He rose up suddenly and reposed awhile in space, with his head resting on the back of the Great Bear, and one foot on the arm of Cassiopeia's Chair, while with the other he skimmed the cream off the Milky Way. And he seemed to be everywhere and yet nowhere in particular, and he said nothing, and I was afraid to make a remark -and there was no sound, save that of the boundless, inconceivable silence which was rumbling round the corner. Presently he came down to the celery-bed once more. the backbone was hidden under one of the flower-pots." The Period-God once more pervaded the endless space that glittered in darkling infinitude round about and right ahead of him. It seemed to me, when he returned, that he had been laughing; but suddenly I saw him pull himself together, and frown. 1 And from afara gurgling rose through the gloom, and darkness fell upon my back-garden, knocking a basilisk off the waterbutt, and above the garden-walls there appeared a crowd of rude persons, in pot hats, with red lolling tongues and wide grinning mouths, holding their sides with inextinguishable mirth. All at once the giggles turned into the booing of Philistines, and there was a fantastic shadowy horseplay, which rolled nearer and nearer. I saw many myriads of spectral kitten forms, and unsubstantial egg shapes rushing towards me through the air. Instinctively I ran indoors and gripped the umbrella from its corner, and stood on guard. Then I heard someonechuckling quite close to me, chuckling softly, but unmistakably. And the booing hushed, and the gloom lightened, and the garden-roller glimmered faintly in the moonlit summer night, and inside the lawn-mower lay the God of the Period crying with uncontrollable laughter. "When the time comes," he said, "when mankind gets weary of Paraded Pessimism, and the Big Scandinavian Boom has burst, then I will conjure forth the Great Guffaw; and then it will be time for all Dyspeptic Decadents to get under their umbrellas-just as you did awhile ago, for mankind will have recovered its sense of humour, and will decline to take them seriously. But you had much better leave off bothering your head about that lost backbone, for you won't be happy when they get it!" And while I was taking off my goloshes indoors, I heard again the sound of snapping celery sticks, as the Period-God rolled on the bed in ecstasies of stifled merriment, and I wondered at intervals what it was all about. FOR OUTWARD APPLICATION.-"A MAN may change his skies,' as the Roman poet puts it," quoth the Daily Telegraph, "but he does not so easily change his habits." The Academy is about to open. The pictures will soon be hung. Varnishing day comes, with last chance for alteration. Then comes in Latin poetic proverb, "A man may change his skies, but, do what he will, he cannot alter that peculiar style that marks the work as his, and nobody else's." NEW PROVERB.-All "problem" and no "play" makes drama a dull joy. SHOCKING HEATHENISM. Rector. "So YOU GO UP TO TOWN NEXT MONTH, MISS MARY. How I ENVY YOU! AND OF COURSE YOU'LL ATTEND THE MAY MEETINGS." "Fridoline." Pris quelque chose?' Rien.' 'Pas mordu du tout?' Une fois, crois.' Le pécheur n'a pas perdu son calme, mais son air n'a rien de triomphant." 66 66 VERY CATCHING. IN the Times of Monday, April 8, appeared an advertisement headed "Lent, Lent-Fish, Fish." This meant, of course, that the season was Lent, not that the fishmonger was a lender of fish. And for the season it was Holy Week, i.e. last week of Lent. Then it goes on Have you ordered your Good Friday's Dinner? If not, do so at once." Excellent and most timely advice, seeing it was given on the Monday preceding Good Friday. So far so good; but then comes a reason why" which apparently quite upsets the kettle of fish. Here is the extract: 46 "Having made contracts with a fishermen to take the whole of their prime fish caught during Easter week," &c., &c. number of the leading trawl and line PR And the world goes on and the mouvement 66 6 I found a book on my table lying among "To-morrow will be Fry day, trouble is. The fishmonger is Why it's the funniest of all! Who are the two ladies? Why are their clothes slipping down? Why are their faces all crooked, and their eyes sideways? Are they meant to be pretty? I don't think they are. What do you say it is? Meant to be painted on the wall of a room? Is that why they look so funny? Why they look like Aunt KITTY, when she's going to have a sea bath, and when- 99 Here the little maiden was suddenly dragged out of the room, and her shrill voice was heard no more. But her winged words are not forgotten by A CRUSHED CRITIC. AN EASTER 'OLIDAY. (A Siesta Song, from the Burlesque Opera "Little Liberal Majority," performed at the Theatre Royal, St. Stephen's.) AIR-" Lazily, Drowsily." WHEN gaily dances the Easter sun, And shelved is each bothersome Bill, When the sunlight falls on the Heath's green breast, And blue are the skies above, Each seeks the rest that he loves the best, Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily, Donkey riding's fun! Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily, HARCOURT's eyelid closes, BALFOUR blandly dozes; Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily, Joggle and jolt! These mokes won't bolt! Each flops like an empty sack On the broad back, shaggy as Shetland colt. Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily, Carelessly jogging on! Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily, No more bland reposes. "That LABBY was often a bore!" sighs WILL, Lazily, lazily, drowsily, drowsily, THE NEW ENGLISH ART CLUB. an ugly lady! Why's she put all that red on her cheeks? What's all that other red THE other day I went to this exhibition of there? Is it another lady? A church in sublime masterpieces. I was about to write Venice? What Olympia where you took me a few comments, full of strange epithets and two years ago? Oh, mother, it can't be a gushing praise, when a small girl came in church! Unless it's upside down. Or perwith a lady. The child spoke so freely that haps all the paints have run into one another I paused to listen. This was her criticism. like mine do. Oh, look! There's a picture "Oh, mother, what's that meant for? I of a washstand. Is it an advertisement of a can't see anything. Look at that lady! She's furniture shop? Or is it meant for what got no face at all. Oh, look at that other! father calls a alight wash in his water-colour She's funnier. What is she? A Spanish drawings? What are those ladies dancing in dancer? Do all Spanish dancers have knobbly sheets for ? Is it sheets they've got on ? faces like you might make out of a potato? Oh what a red face that gentleman's got! What are those people skating on? Is it I don't think they paint very pretty ladies or PARLIAMENTARY PROVERB.-There's many cotton wool? Oh, mother, look there! What gentlemen here. Oh, mother, look at that! a slip 'twixt the M.P. and the "Whip"! "THE OBJECTION TO EUCLID" of which we have heard so much recently is of very ancient standing, and is shared by nearly every schoolboy. |