src="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@40738@40738-h@images@074.png" width="100%" alt="THE COW WAS THE STAMP TO IMPRESS SUPERIOR BUTTER." title="THE COW WAS THE STAMP TO IMPRESS SUPERIOR BUTTER." tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}img"/>

"THE COW WAS THE STAMP TO IMPRESS SUPERIOR BUTTER."

"Arf a pound er Margarine, please; an' Mother says will yer put the Cow on it, 'cos she's got Company!"

HINT FOR THE ALPINE SEASON.

(Adapted freely from the Old Royal Repartee.)

Middle-aged would-be Mountaineer (loq.).

Fain would I climb, but,—well, my belt's too small.

Mr. Punch (in reply).

If your girth grows, Sir, do not climb at all!
Your Alpen-stock put by, ere the world mock.
And you become an (Alpine) Laughing-stock.
Though Alps on Alps arise you stop in bed,
And let a younger man yon glaciers tread.
The dangers of steep slides and deep crevasses
Are not for elderly donkeys, but young asses.
The Himalayas woo you still to pant on?
Well, treat 'em as you would an arch young wanton,
Think of your legs, the boys, the girls, the Missus,
And do not play the elderly Narcissus.
To witch the world with noble "Icemanship"
Is tempting, yes, but if you chance to slip,
Your bones a fathomless abyss may strew,
An Alpine death,—and they'll all pine for you.
Man after fifty fits not the sublime,
So stay at home nor seek a foreign climb.
The plague of guide, and chum, and wife and daughter,
Is Senex who will climb and didn't oughter.
Stick to your Alpine Club, but like old foodles,
Pay, stop at home, and play at whist at Boodles'.
Decline with the old mania to be bitten,
And you will own this tip is diamond-written
(Like good Queen Bess's repartee on glass),
And that you're saved from being an old ass!

LINES IN PLEASANT PLACES.

VI.—Kew Gardens.

In the gardens at Kew
It were certainly sweet
To be wand'ring with you,
Far from city and street;
'Twere the one thing, dear Nellie, my joy and content to complete
In the gardens at Kew.

In the gardens at Kew,
If my way I might take
By the water with you,
Oh! how merry we'd make,—
I am sure you would dote on the dear little ducks in the lake
In the gardens at Kew.

In the gardens at Kew,
Having tea à la fraises,
We would cheerfully stew
'Neath the fierce solar rays,
And in "eloquent silence" you'd meet my affectionate gaze
In the gardens at Kew.

In the gardens at Kew
We would sit in the shade
For an hour or two,
Without chaperone's aid,
And your head on my shoulder (who knows?) might be lovingly laid
In the gardens at Kew.

In the gardens at Kew,
Far away from the crowd,
Though I'm longing for you,
To stern Fate I have bowed:
For it grieves me, dear Nellie, to tell you, "No dogs are allowed"
In the gardens at Kew!

NOT MASTER OF HIMSELF THOUGH CHINA FALL.

["The Emperor (of China) is still cursed with the violent temper of his adolescence, and "breaks things."—"Times" Correspondent at Pekin.

Oh! is this announcement plain truth?
Or is it mere genial mockery?
And what does this choleric youth
Of China thus break—is it crockery?
It does seem unfitting, you know—
At least as we Westerners see things—
That the lord of Souchong and Pekoe
Should be guilty of smashing up tea-things!
Of course, if he had an idea
Of breaking the Japanese bondage,
Or breaking their hold on Korea,—
Well, youth is a fiery and fond age,
And old age might find an excuse
For breaking the peace; but kind wishes
Can hardly invent an excuse
For breaking the plates and the dishes.
He is youthful, like little Ah Sid,
It would be very mean to malign a
Mere boy; yet a true Chinese kid
Should not start with the smashing of China!

The Cry of the (Literary) Croakers.

Batrachians may doubt if King Stork or King Log
Be the Frog-pond's most suitable lord and controller;
But Grub Street's unfortunate unlauded frog
Loathes the rule of the new King Log-Roller!

MEM. BY AN OVERWORKED ONE.

With "brain-fag" our swift, feverish age is rife,
And death is oft the mere "fag-end" of life.

Something like a "Packed Meeting."—The meeting of the various Arctic Expeditions in the Polar Ice Pack.

"TO BE WELL SHAKEN BEFORE TAKEN!"

"JUSTICE AS SHE IS SPOKEN IN FRANCE."

Dear Mr. Punch,—Now that we are close upon the silly season, when it is most difficult to get interesting "copy" for the columns of the daily papers, may I be permitted to make a suggestion? No doubt you have seen an account of the examination of Caserio Santo by the President of the Court on the occasion of his trial. Could not the idea be naturalised in London by the Metropolitan Police Magistrates? I would not, of course, propose to apply the method in cases of a serious character, but used in what are known as "the night charges," the practice would become very interesting. To better explain my meaning. I will imagine that a prisoner who has been arrested on a charge of being "drunk and incapable" is standing in front of his worship.

Magistrate (with sarcasm). You are sober now.

Prisoner (in the same tone). As a judge.

Magistrate (indignantly). Judges are always sober.

Prisoner (with a laugh). How should you know?—you, who are only a magistrate!

[Murmurs.

Magistrate. You insult me! But that will not serve you. Drink is the curse of the country!

Prisoner. You have tried it? It has been a curse to you!

[Cries of disapproval.

Magistrate. You are young to bandy words with one old enough to be your father!

Prisoner. My father! You my father! What an honour!

Magistrate. I do not envy him! Nor your mother!

Prisoner