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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, May 6, 1914
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
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Superb Chauffeur. "There has been an accident, m'lady."
OUR OVERBRED RACERS.
The Nightmare of an Anxious Owner.
"Flash-in-the-Pan" suddenly realises the enormous issues depending on him and faints in his trainer's arms.
PETER, A PEKINESE PUPPY.
Our Peter, who's famed as an eater of things,
Is a miniature dragon without any wings.
He can gallop or trot, he can amble or jog,
But he flies like a flash when he's after his prog:
And the slaves who adore him, whatever his mood,
Say that nothing is fleeter
Than Peter the eater,
Than Peter pursuing his food.
He considers the garden his absolute own:
It's the place where a digger can bury a bone.
Then he tests his pin-teeth on a pansy or rose,
Spreading ruin and petals wherever he goes;
And his mistress declares, when he's nibbled for hours,
That nothing is sweeter
Than Peter the eater,
The resolute eater of flowers.
Having finished his dinner he wheedles the cook,
Picks a coal from the scuttle or tackles a book,
Or devotes all his strength to a slipper or mat,
To the gnawing of this and the tearing of that:
Faute de mieux takes a dress; and his mistress asserts
That there's nothing to beat her
Like Peter the eater,
Attached by his teeth to her skirts.
But at last he has supped, and the moment is come
When, his stretchable tum being tight as a drum,
He is meek and submissive, who once was so proud,
And he creeps to his basket and slumbers aloud.
And his mistress proclaims, as she tucks up his shawl,
That nothing is neater
Than Peter the eater,
Than Peter curled up in a ball,
Asleep and digesting it all.
R. C. L.
A BARGAIN IN FASHIONS.
Whatever may chance in the coming season
Regarding the fashions in women's wear,
I should like to remark that I see no reason
For treating the thing like a German scare;
Rather let us, the oppressed, restricted,
Assert ourselves as the women do;
It's their turn, dash it! to feel afflicted
By seeing us flaunting a craze or two.
It's more than time their monopoly ceases;
Excepting the vote, I dare assert
We deny them none of their wild caprices,
Though I own we jibbed at the harem skirt;
We were wrong; we ought to have let them wear it;
Free will in dress is a sacred right;
But we should be equally keen to declare it
With them who make it their chief delight.
We must come to terms with our female betters,
Seeing that summer will soon be nigh;
If they would be rid of the skirt that fetters,
They might free us from the collar and tie;
It's neck or nothing! I ask you whether
We can't be conspicuous now and then;
I think there challenges go together:—
Trousers for women!—Low necks for men!
THE COMPETITION SPIRIT.
About six weeks ago a Canadian gentleman named Smith arrived in the Old Country (England). He knew a man who knew a man who knew a man ... and so on for a bit ... who know a man who knew a man who knew me. Letters passed; negotiations ensued; and about a week after he had first set foot in the Mother City (London) Smith and I met at my Club for lunch.
I may confess now that I was nervous. I think I expected a man in a brown shirt and leggings, who would ask me to put it "right there," and tell me I was "some Englishman." However, he turned out to be exactly like anybody else in London. Whether he found me exactly like anybody else in Canada, I don't know. Anyway, we had a very pleasant lunch, and arranged to play golf together on the next day.
Whatever else is true of Canada there can be no doubt that it turns out delightful golfers. Smith proved to be just the best golfer I had ever met, being, in fact, when at the top of his form, almost exactly as good as I was. Hole after hole we halved in a mechanical eight. If by means of a raking drive and four perfect brassies at the sixth he managed to get one up for a moment, then at the short seventh a screaming iron and three consummate approaches would make me square again. Occasionally he would, by superhuman play, do a hole in bogey; but only to crack at the next, and leave me, at the edge of the green, to play "one off eleven." It was, in fact, a ding-dong struggle all the way; and for his one-hole victory in the morning I had my revenge with a one-hole victory in the afternoon.
By the end of a month we must have played a dozen rounds of this nature. I always had a feeling that I was really a better golfer than he, and this made me friendly towards his game. I would concede him short putts which I should have had no difficulty in missing myself; if he lost his ball I would beg him to drop another and go on with the hole; if he got into a bad place in a bunker I would assure him it was ground under repair. He was just as friendly in refusing to take these advantages, just as pleasant in offering similar indulgences to me. I thought at first it was part of his sporting way, but it turned out that (absurdly enough) he also was convinced that he was really the better golfer of the two, and could afford these amenities.
One day he announced that he was going back to Canada.
"We must have a last game," he said, "and this one must be decisive."
"For the championship of the Empire," I agreed. "Let's buy a little cup and play for it. I've never won anything at golf yet, and I should love to see a little cup on the dinner-table every night."
"You can't come to dinner in Canada every night," he pointed out. "It would be so expensive for you."
Well, the cup was bought, engraved "The Empire Challenge Cup," and played for last Monday.
"This," said Smith, "is a serious game, and we must play all out. No giving away anything, no waiving the rules. The Empire is at stake. The effeteness of the Mother Country is about to be put to the proof. Proceed."
It wasn't the most pleasant of our games. The spirit of the Cup hung over it and depressed us. At the third hole I had an eighteen-inch putt for a half. "That's all right," said Smith forgetfully, and then added, "perhaps you'd better put it in, though." Of course I missed. On the fifth green he bent down to brush away a leaf. "That's illegal," I said sharply, "you must pick it up; you mayn't brush it away," and after a fierce argument on the point he putted hastily—and badly. At the eighteenth tee we were all square and hardly on speaking terms. The fate of the Mother Country depended upon the result of this hole.
I drove a long one, the longest of the day, slightly hooked.
"Good shot," said Smith with an effort. He pressed and foozled