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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 159, August 4th, 1920
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 159, August 4th, 1920
lay;
And the cargoes that I saw there they were every sort and kind,
Every blessed brand of merchandise a man could bring to mind;
There were things in crates and boxes, there was stuff in bags and bales,
There were tea-chests wrapped in matting, there were Eastern-looking frails,
There were baulks of teak and greenheart, there were stacks of spruce and pine,
There was cork and frozen carcasses and casks of Spanish wine,
There was rice and spice and cocoa-nuts, and rum enough was there
For to warm all London's innards up and leave a drop to spare;
But of all the freights I found there, gathered in from far and wide,
All the smells both nice and nasty from the Pool to Barkingside,
All the harvest of the harbours from Bombay to Montreal,
There was one that took my fancy first and foremost of them all;
It was neither choice nor costly, it was neither rich nor rare
And, in most ways you can think of, it was neither here nor there,
It was nothing over-beautiful to smell nor yet to see—
Only bags of stuffy nitrate—but it meant a lot to me.
I forgot the swarming stevedores, I forgot the dust and din,
And the rattle of the winches hoisting cargo out and in,
And the rusty tramp before me with her hatches open wide,
And the grinding of her derricks as the sacks went overside;
I forgot the murk of London and the dull November sky—
I was far, ay, far from England, in a day that's long gone by.
I forgot the thousand changes years have brought in ships and men,
And the knots on Time's old log-line that have reeled away since then,
And I saw a fast full-rigger with her swelling canvas spread,
And the steady trade-wind droning in her royals overhead,
Fleecy trade-clouds on the sky-line—high above the Tropic blue—
And the curved arch of her foresail and the ocean gleaming through;
I recalled the Cape Stiff weather, when your soul-case seemed to freeze,
And the trampling, cursing watches and the pouring, pooping seas,
And the ice on spar and jackstay, and the cracking, volleying sail,
And the tatters of our voices blowing down the roaring gale ...
I recalled the West Coast harbours just as plain as yesteryear—
Nitrate ports, all dry and dusty, where they sell fresh water-dear—
Little cities white and wicked by a bleak and barren shore,
With an anchor on the cliff-side for to show you where to moor;
And the sour red wine we tasted, and the foolish songs we sung,
And the girls we had our fun with in the days when we were young;
And the dancing in the evenings down at Dago Bill's saloon,
And the stars above the mountains and the sea's eternal tune.
Only bags of stuffy nitrate from a far Pacific shore,
From a dreary West Coast harbour that I'll surely fetch no more;
Only bags of stuffy nitrate, with its faint familiar smell
Bringing back the ships and shipmates that I used to know so well;
Half a lifetime lies between us and a thousand leagues of sea,
But it called the days departed and my boyhood back to me.
C.F.S.
ROSES ALL THE WAY.
Fired by an Irish rose-grower's pictures of some of his beautiful new seedlings we are tempted to describe one or two of our own favourite flowers in language similar to his own. This is an example of the way he does it:—
"Lady Maureen Stewart (Hybrid Tea).—A gloriously-finished globular slightly imbricated cupped bloom with velvety black scarlet cerise shell-shaped petals, whose reflex is solid pure orangey maroon without veining. An excellent bloom, ideal shape, brilliant and non-fading colour with heavy musk rose odour. Erect growth and flower-stalk. Foliage wax and leathery and not too large. A very floriferous and beautiful rose. 21s. each."
Why not also these?—
David (Hybrid Tory-Lib.).—A gloriously-finished true-blue-slightly-imbricated-with-red-flag coalition rose whose deep globular head with ornate decorative calyx retains its perfect exhibition-cross-question-hostile-amendment symmetry of form without blueing or burning in the hottest Westminster sun. Its smiling peach and cerise endearments terminating in black scarlet shell-shaped waxy Berlin ultimata are carried on an admirably rigid peduncle. Equally vigorous in all parts of Europe. Superbly rampant. Not on sale.
Austen (Tea and most other things).—This bottomless-cupped bank-paper-white-edged-and-rimmed-with-tape-pink-margin bloom, the reflex of whose never-fading demand notes is velvety black thunder-cloud with lightning-flash six-months-in-the-second-division veinations, has never been known to be too full. It is supported by a landlordly stalk of the utmost excess-profits-war-profits-minor-profits rigidity. A decorative, acquisitive and especially captivating rose, and already something more than a popular favourite. 18s. in £1.
Sir Thomas (Ceylon and India Tea).—This true sport from the British bull-dog rose has a slightly globular double-hemisphere-popular greatly-desiring-and-deserving-to-be-cupped bloom whose pearly preserved cream flesh is delicately flushed and mottled with tinned salmon and dried apricot. Rich golden and banking-account stamina, foliage deep navy blue with brass buttons and a superb fragrance of western ocean. Its marvellous try-try-try-again floriferousness in all weathers is the admiration of all beholders. Price no object.
From a weather forecast:—
"General Outlook.—It appears probable that further expressions will arrive from the westward or north-westward before long, and that after a temporary improvement the weather will again become unsettled; with much cloud and occasional rain."—Evening Paper.
In which event further expressions (of a sultry character) may be expected from all round the compass.
"COME UNTO THESE YELLOW SANDS."
"Come unto these yellow sands and then—
—take hands."—[The Tempest, Act I., Sc. 2.QUEEN'S COUNSEL.
The Fairy Queen shook her head in answer to my question. "No," she said, "I have no favourite flower."
She had dropped in after dinner, as was her occasional habit, and at the moment sat perched on a big red carnation which stood in a flower-glass on the top of my desk.
"You see," she continued, floating across to where I was sitting and lowering her voice confidentially, for there were a good many flowers about—"you see it would never do. Just think of the trouble it would cause. Imagine the state of mind of the lilies if I were to show a preference for roses. There's always been a little jealousy there, and they're all frightfully touchy. The artistic temperament, you know. Why, I daren't even sleep in the same flower two nights running."
"Yes, I see," I said. "It must be very awkward."
I lapsed into silence; I had had a worrying day and was feeling tired and a little