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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 158, 1920-05-12
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
was invited to enter Ireland by Desmond MacMorogh, and between you and me and the lamp-post Desmond was a bad hat. Look at the way he stole Devorghal, the wife of Tigheiranach O’Rourke.”
“Quite, quite,” we replied. As a matter of fact, if he had mentioned “The Silent Wife” we should have felt a bit more at home with the situation.
“Now take the Danes,” said Sir Philip. “Do you ever hear an Irishman complain of the injustice done to Ireland by the Danes? After that little scrap at Clontarf they accepted the Danish invasion quite naturally. Anyhow, the Danes got there first, and the Prime Minister’s view is ‘first come first served.’”
“But will Denmark undertake the mandate?” we asked doubtfully.
“Why not? They have Iceland already, and there is only one letter different.”
Scooting thoughtfully away, we went to visit Mr. T. P. O’Connor, feeling sure he would have some light to throw on the situation. We found him overjoyed with the proposal.
“Ireland and Denmark are simply made for each other,” he pointed out; “both are butter-producing countries and, welded together, they will form one homogeneous and indissoluble pat. Peace will reign in Ireland from marge to marge.”
Mr. Devlin was less optimistic. The rule of Dublin Castle under Olaf Trygvesson was, he declared, not a whit better than the rule of Dublin Castle to-day. It was true that Turges the Dane was King of All Ireland in 815, but it was not until that chieftain had been very rightly and carefully killed by Melachlin that the Golden Age of Ireland began. He was doubtful whether Mr. Edmund de Valera would consent to be a toparch under Danish suzerainty. As for himself, he held by the Home Rule Bill of 1914 or, failing that, Brian Boru.
When we asked Sir Edward Carson how he viewed the prospect of becoming a Scandinavian jarl, he adopted a morose expression reminding us not a little of the “moody Dane.”
“If the Prime Minister’s proposal becomes law,” he said firmly, “I shall have no alternative but to hand over Ulster to Holland.”
We scooted slowly back to the office, forced to the conclusion that the Irish Question is not settled even yet.
GENIUS AT PLAY.
Shall I ever see again
In the human head a brain
Like the article that fills
That interior of Bill’s?
Never a day can pass but he
Makes some great discovery;
His inventions are so many
That you cannot think of any
Realm of science, wit or skill
That is not enriched by Bill.
To relieve the awful strain
Of possessing such a brain
William always used to play
Eighteen holes each Saturday.
But he scarce could see at all,
And he often lost his ball,
Plus his temper and his pelf,
So he made a ball himself,
Which, if it should chance to roam
Out of sight, played “Home, Sweet Home”
On a small euphonium he
Had inserted in its tummy.
Next he wrought with cunning hand
Round its waist an endless band,
An ingenious affair
Such as tanks delight to wear;
And, inside, a little motor
Started every time you smote or
Even when you topped your shot;
And, once started, it would not
Stop, for if it came within
Half a furlong of the pin,
Then it was designed to roll
Straight and true towards the hole.
This is scarcely strange, because
It was bound by Nature’s laws,
And a magnet was the force
(Hidden ’neath its skin, of course)
Which, thought he, would make it feel
Drawn towards a pin of steel.
When he practised first with it
William almost had a fit,
For the ball with sudden whim
Started madly chasing him!
“That’s a game that I’ll soon settle,”
William said; “my clubs are metal;
Spoons and other clubs of wood
Will be every bit as good.”
Then he found to his dismay
Every time he tried to play
That the ball with sundry hoots
Chased the hob-nails in his boots.
Finally he had to use
On his feet a pair of shoes
Of a most peculiar shape
Made of insulating tape.
So the final test arrives
When once more he tees and drives.
Joy! As soon as he has hit he
Sees it toddling down the pretty,
Never swerving left or right
Till it waddles out of sight,
Plodding through a bunker and
Braying like a German band.
Reader, possibly you’ll guess
That the ball was a success.
’Twas in fact a super-sphere,
But—I shed a scalding tear
On these verses as I write ’em—
He forgot just one small item
Which (as small things often will)
Simply put the lid on Bill:
For the hole proved far too small
To accommodate his ball.
Best Man. “’Ow much?”
Parson. “Well, the law allows me seven-and-sixpence.”
Best Man. “Then ’ere’s ’arf-a-crahn. That makes it up to ’arf-a-quid.”
“Wanted Situation by respectable middle-aged Girl; working housekeeper, can cook, bake; would not object to milk one cow (Protestant).”—Ulster Paper.
As distinct from a Papal Bull.
Singular Coincidence.
“Having successfully towed the disabled American steamer Tashmoo 1,200 miles, the Fort Stephens, a Cunard steamer, arrived at Queenstown on Saturday.”—Daily Paper.
“Having successfully towed the disabled American steamer Tashmos, with which she fell in last Monday, 200 miles, the Fort Stephen, a Cunard steamer, arrived at Queenstown on Saturday.”—Same paper, same day.
“The King has notified his intention to command the attendance of Lieutenants of Counties and the Lord Mayors and the Lost Provosts of Great Britain, at Buckingham Palace on the 15th instant.”—Glasgow Paper.
Mr. Punch hopes that this additional publicity will lead to the recovery of the missing magistrates.
THE AUTHOR-MANAGERS.
Literature is becoming so commercialised that it is to be expected that before long popular authors, who already surreptitiously practise the tradesman’s art, will go a step further and write their own advertisements. No longer will they be content to get themselves interviewed on the subject of their next book, their new car and their favourite poodle, or to depend on the oleaginous eulogies of the publishers.
For instance:
Mr. DOUGLAS DORMY
begs to announce that he is