PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Volume 108, April 20, 1895
edited by Sir Francis Burnand

IMPROVING THE SHINING HOUR.

The New Governess. "What are the Comparative and Superlative of Bad, Berty?"

Berty (the Doctor's son). "Bad—Worse—Dead!"

A CHINO-JAPANESE CALENDAR.

(For the next Ten Years.)

• 1895.  Treaty of peace signed between China and Japan, on the basis of the opening up of Chinese territory and introduction of machinery into the Celestial Empire. The Japanese prophesy that the compact will ultimately prove to be for the benefit of the Chinese.
• 1896.  Japan floods China with home-made merchants, who obtain an enormous trade.
• 1897.  England, America and France follow suit, and, after a pause, the remainder of the civilized world adopt the prevailing fashion.
• 1898.  Japanese China becomes over-populated, thanks to the foreign invasion, and there is much discontent amongst the original inhabitants.
• 1899.  The foreigners, having secured all the possible trade that could be obtained, commence the erection of manufactories.
• 1900.  Japanese China challenges Birmingham, Glasgow, Lyons, and Marseilles on their own ground, and holds its own. It claims to be one of the most productive places on the face of the universe.
• 1901.  The introduction of machinery having thrown the teeming millions of Japanese China out of work, there is great discontent amongst them.
• 1902.  An enterprising citizen of the United States of America projects an emigration scheme for supplying the outer world with the superfluous population of Japanese China.
• 1903.  The scheme of the citizen of the U. S. A. proves a great success, and sixty millions of Chino-Japanese are conveyed to the two worlds, the old and the new.
• 1904.  The original inhabitants of Europe and America, undersold by the Chino-Japanese, are ousted from their positions and left without work. Consequently, great prosperity of the Chino-Japanese.
• 1905.  Fulfilment of the prophecy, that the treaty of peace between China and Japan signed in 1895 was "really for the benefit of the Chinese."

WON'T WASH!

Or, The British Laundress's Lament.

[There is talk of a company for taking our laundry-work over to Holland, washing it there, and returning it to the owners at a less cost than it can be done for at home.]

A MISMANAGED ACCIDENT.

Have just discovered that the pretty girl I met at the dance the other night is a lady nurse at Charing Cross Hospital. Such a nice girl! What a charming nurse she must be! Almost wish I was laid up at the hospital. In fact, quite wish it. But I can't be. Another outrage on the miserable, downtrodden, middle class. If I were one of the fortunate, pampered masses, a Working Man, I should be nursed by her, if I were ill, and by others, perhaps, like her. Stay! There is a chance. If I could be damaged in an accident—not too much damaged—and carried to the hospital, they must look after me, and nurse me. They couldn't help themselves. Northumberland Avenue—the very place! Never cross it without being nearly run over.

Go straight there and look eagerly for the usual rushing hansoms. Here's one. Stroll in front of it. Driver pulls aside, shouts and swears at me, and goes on. Reflect that some caution is necessary. If the wheel went over my neck, even her ministrations would be useless. Must be run over judiciously. Better only be knocked down. Stroll across road again. Here comes one. Shouts from driver. A large splash of mud in my eye. And that's all. These cabmen drive so absurdly well. They pull up, or pull aside, or pull somewhere instantly. Wipe my eye, and then see something better. Old lady's brougham, from the suburbs, driven by the sort of coachman who also works in the garden. He won't be able to pull aside quickly. Stroll in front of horse. Shouts from gardening coachman. Horse nearly on me. Suddenly pulled back by fussy policeman, who says I had a narrow escape. Hang the fellow, of course I did! Am obliged to give him ten shillings for his prompt action. Begin to despair of this accident. Stroll on nearly to Embankment. Immense van coming along at a trot. Much too heavy. I should be smashed flat. And this driver seems to want to run over me. Escape with difficulty by jumping aside. At that moment something hits my legs, I am thrown down, and a wheel passes over my foot. It is a costermonger's donkey-cart which was racing the van. How ignominious! To be knocked down by a donkey and run over by a truck! Very painful too. Feel as if I should faint. Picked up by sympathetic people who rush to me. Say feebly to them, "Take me to the hospital." Then faint.

After a short time open my eyes. Am being carried in somewhere. At last! I shall forget the pain. I am in the hospital. She will nurse me! She—oh, heavens! Though I have planned it all, suppose I ought to murmur, "Where am I?" Do so. "In St. Thomas's Hospital," says somebody.

A fortnight later.—And I am in it still.

According to a paragraph last week in the Westminster Gazette, quoting from the Australian Review of Reviews, it appears that the Earl of Yarmouth has been making a sensation in the Colonies as a "Skirt-dancer." Queer fish this nobleman! belongs to the Bloater Aristocracy.

A Noble Plunger.—One day last week in the Times appeared an article headed "Lord Rayleigh on Waves." Rather early for sea-bathing, eh? Evidently so, such prominence having been given to the fact by the leading journal.

"BETTER LATE THAN NEVER.

Mr. Punch (welcoming Miss