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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 99, September 20, 1890
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
picturesque, with an Early English wooden porch (which can be kept from falling to pieces quite easily by hammering a few nails in now and then, and re-painting once a week), and no end of gables, which only let the water into the bedrooms in case of a very heavy shower. Then think of the delights of a garden, and a field (for which I pay £20 a year, and repair the hedges), and chickens! I don't think I have spent more than £50 above what I should have done in London, owing to the necessity of fitting up chicken-runs and buying a conservatory for my wife, who is passionately fond of flowers. Unfortunately my chickens are now moulting, and decline to lay again before next March; so I bring back fresh eggs from town, and, as my conservatory is not yet full, flowers from Covent Garden; and I can assure you that, until you try it, you cannot tell the amount of pleasure and exercise which walking a couple of miles (the distance of my cottage from the station), laden with groceries and other eatables, can be made to afford. Yours chirpily,
FIELD-FARE.
GOOD FOR SPORT!—A well-known chartered accountant, with a vulpine patronymic, complains of the unkind treatment he recently received in Cologne at the hands of the German police. He should be consoled by the thought, that his persecution marked in those latitudes the introduction of Fox-hunting.
YANKEE EXCLUSIVENESS.
Young Britisher. "YOUR FATHER'S NOT WITH YOU THEN, MISS VAN TROMP?"
Fair New York Millionnairess (one of three). "WHY, NO—PA'S MUCH TOO VULGAR! IT'S AS MUCH AS WE CAN DO TO STAND MA!"
THE QUICKSAND!
Is this the Eagle-hunter,
The valiant fate-confronter,
The soldier brave, and blunter
Of speech than BISMARCK's self?
This bungler all-disgracing,
This braggart all-debasing.
This spurious sportsman, chasing
No nobler prey than pelf?
The merest "fly in amber,"
He after eagles clamber?
Nay, faction's ante-chamber
Were fitter place for him,
A trifler transitory,
To gasconade of "glory"!
He'd foul fair France's story,
Her lustre pale and dim.
Les Coulisses? Ah, precisely!
They suit his nature nicely,
Who bravely, nobly, wisely,
Can hardly even "act."
Histrio all blague and blather,
Is it not pity, rather,
One Frenchman should foregather
With him in selfish pact?
In selfish pact—but silly.
His neighbouring, willy-nilly,
Must smirch the Bee, the Lily,
Or stain the snow-white flag.
Wielder of mere stage-dagger,
Loud lord of empty swagger,
In peril's hour a lagger.
A Paladin of Brag!
And now his venture faileth,
And now his valour paleth;
Et après? What availeth
His aid to those who'd use him?
Imperial or Royal,
What "patron" will prove loyal
Unto this "dupe"? They'll joy all
To mock, expose, abuse him!
But from the contest shrinking,
The draught of failure drinking,
In trickery's quicksand sinking,
Pulls he not others down?
Will PLON-PLON stand securely,
The COMTE pose proudly, purely,
Whilst slowly but most surely
Their tool must choke or drown?
Indifferent France sits smiling.
And what avails reviling?
Such pitch without defiling
Can "Prince" or "Patriot" touch?
This quicksand unromantic
Closes on him, the Antic,
Whose hands with gestures frantic
Contiguous coat-tails clutch.
The furious factions splutter,
Power's cheated claimants mutter,
And foiled fire-eaters utter
Most sanguinary threats.
"He Freedom's fated suckler?
The traitor, trickster, truckler!"
So fumes the fierce swash-buckler,
And his toy-rapier whets.
But will that quicksand only
Engulph him lost and lonely?
The fraud exposed, the known lie,
The bribe at length betrayed,
Must whelm this sham detected,
But what may be expected
From "Honour" shame-infected,
And "Kingship" in the shade?
THE RAVENSTEIN.
[Mr. RAVENSTEIN, at the British Association, considered the question, how long it will be before the world becomes over-populated.]
Punch to the Prophet.