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"
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Conductor (to alighting passenger, who has rung the bell several times). "That'll do, my banana queen. One ring is sufficient—not 'The Blue Bells of Scotland.'"
A PLEA TO THE EXCHEQUER.
Less gifted souls may seek an earthly mate;
Lonely for ever I am doomed to be,
For all my life to Art is dedicate;
Yea, Art for mine or (speaking English) me.
I've put away the commonplace delights
Of humbler folk to brood on things sublime;
Rapt and aloof I ever tread the heights,
Thinking great thoughts and getting words to rhyme.
Maidens have passed before me, but no bride
Among them all have I essayed to choose;
Sternly I've put the thought of love aside,
An austere poet "wedded to the Muse."
But now of one small guerdon I am fain
(A poet's solace for the love he lacks)—
That this may qualify me to attain
The married man's relief from income-tax.
Commercial Candour.
"AMAZING SHOE OFFER.
Last Seven Days."
We know this kind of shoe.
"Parrot, splendid talker, South African grey, in perfect condition; good reason for selling; does not swear."
Tastes differ, of course; but personally we should not call this a "good" reason.
THE TARTAR PRINCESS.
She was staying at a Finnish hydro near Helsingfors. I asked for her on the telephone and her old mother answered.
"Is it you, Monsieur Anatole? Fancy ringing up so early—twelve o'clock! Of course Tatiana is in bed. One can see you have been away from your native country a long time. We left Petersburg three months ago. Come and see us at a reasonable time—say three o'clock—and we'll tell you all about it."
My two years' sojourn in England had accustomed me to English ways. I had certainly committed an indiscretion in ringing up my former clients (I was their legal adviser in Petersburg) at such an unconscionable time.
I found Tatiana, in a smart black glacé gown, reclining on a sofa and smoking a cigarette in a dull sitting-room, surrounded by other Russian émigrés. She jumped up when she saw me.
"At last, Monsieur Anatole," she said. "You remember when you left Petersburg in 1918 I told you that you would be submarined, but here you are back again safely. I'm so glad." Her eyes shone and she held out her little white hand. "You have brought it with you?"
"What with me?"
"The soap, of course. Surely you remember. I asked you to buy me some Savon Idéal in Paris. It is the only kind that suits my skin."
"But I haven't been to Paris."
"You haven't brought my soap! Why haven't you been to Paris?"
"I have been to London."
She pouted. "Why stay in London instead of Paris? What silliness!"
"And how did you get here?" I asked.
"By sledge. It was terribly exciting and illegal, of course, and dangerous. Petersburg's awful. All the pipes have burst and there are no Russians there."
"No Russians!" I exclaimed.
"Because the best people—I mean, of course, the people who won't work—have all adopted other nationalities. We are—what are we, Mother?"
"I think it's Adgans, my dear," the old lady chimed in.
"Adgans," I repeated.
"Something of that sort," said the Princess. "It doesn't matter
