قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 158, May 26, 1920
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
court.
A Hackney boy has dug up a Queen Anne shilling. We understand that, on hearing the price of sugar, the shilling asked to be put back again.
The old gentleman who, after reading in the daily papers that all hairy caterpillars should be destroyed at sight on account of their destructive powers, tried to crush a Society lady's pet Pekinese in Hyde Park with his foot is now supposed to be short-sighted.
THE VIRTUE THAT BEGINS AWAY FROM HOME
(as illustrated by an American sample of missionary zeal).
In Europe's hour of darkest night
That daunts the faith of sage and seer
I long to share the morning light
Diffused in yonder hemisphere;
There all is joy and radiance (just
As when on Eden first the sun rose),
Thanks to the Power that holds in trust
That legacy of Colonel Monroe's.
But out of those so halcyon skies
Chill blasts of disillusion blow
When I observe with pained surprise
The state of things in Mexico;
And "Why," I ask, "in Heaven's name,
Can't 'God's own country' (U.S.A.) go
And, by the right none else may claim,
Put it across the dirty Dago?"
Then I reflect: "'Tis not so strange;
Some virtues best begin at home,
But others, of superior range,
Prefer to start beyond the foam;
There are who mend the ills at hand,
But those whose aims are even bigger
Seek out a far and savage land
There to convert the godless nigger.
"This chance, no doubt, distracts the Yank
From sinners at his very door;
No local cure, he feels, can rank
With efforts on a distant shore;
His heart to Sinn Fein's gospel wed,
And by its beauty deeply bitten,
He sends his dollars forth to spread
The fear of hell in heathen Britain."
O. S.
THE BEST PICTURE IN THE ACADEMY.
Let me see. I must have been battling my way through the Galleries step by step for an hour and three-quarters, and I haven't yet decided which is the best picture.
But then it's no easy matter to make up one's mind when there are so many, many pictures—and so many, many people....
And some of them, I'm sorry to say, are not quite so considerate as they might be. For instance, I had nearly chosen Mr. Clausen's Shepherd Boy: Sunrise. I was imagining the hush, the solitude. Suddenly two inexorable hats were thrust between me and the canvas, while two inexorable voices carried on a detailed discussion about what Doris (whoever Doris may be) was wearing at the wedding yesterday.
It wasn't fair to me; and it wasn't fair to the Shepherd Boy. I know he hasn't got a face, poor fellow. But is that a reason for putting ideas into his head?
It seems to me the crush is fiercer than ever in front of the picture over there. Probably I shall find that to be the best of all; No. 274: Mr. J. J. Shannon's Sir Oswald Stoll. Ah, I see. These ladies are simply using the unfortunate gentleman as a looking-glass to tidy their hair in.
But oh, Sir Oswald, do I really look as tired as all that? Yes, you're right; I am tired. I'll go and sit down.
Not a vacant seat anywhere.... Yes, there is—quick! At the far end of the Galleries. Now isn't it just like the Supreme War Council to have left that one chair empty for me at their
