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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 105 December 16, 1893
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, Vol. 105 December 16, 1893
diphtheritic milk.
We're not all gin-sodden sots, though we do not empty lots
Of those enigmatic bottles, which to you are always dear,
Filled with liquor, washy, sweet, aërated. Such a treat
Is your execrable lemonade, your beastly ginger-beer!
Other people do not rave from the cradle to the grave.
The Frenchman takes his petit verre, his Bordeaux or his bock;
The German's limpid beer or his Rheinwein none need fear.
Even you would not be overcome by claret, say, or hock.
Then if you are truly wise, you will cease to close your eyes
To the fact that moderation is convincing, and should be
In your words, as in our drink. Then we might more kindly think
Of your thickly, sickly cocoa, and your nerve-exciting tea.
"Eureka! Eureka!"—His wife had heard the word. Had been told it was Greek: but what it meant she did not know. One night he came home from a bachelor smoking-party. "Oh," she exclaimed. "You absolutely reek of tobacco. You reeker!" Then it broke upon her like an ancient light that she was talking Greek without knowing it!
THE FESTIVE SEASON.
Precocious Infant. "Help Yourself, and Pass the Bottle!"
THE CHAMPION SHAVER;
Or, A Task against Time.
Largo al factotum! Shave all the world, one per minute!
Figaro beaten, Poll Sweedlepipe plainly not in it!
Wick of King's Road, Chelsea's champion chin-scraper, out of it!
Romola's garrulous razor-man whipped, there's no doubt of it!
Rustic's rough stubble, or working-man's wiry chin-bristle,
Mown from his gills in a twinkling, as clean as a whistle.
Even a bristly Hibernian boar he would gaily
Tackle, and trim him as smooth as that downy young Bailey.
Grand Old Tonsorial Hand with the soft-soap and lather;
Knight of the Razor, of hand-sweep redoubtable—rather!
Pat—or Shagpat-Hodge or Bluebeard, blue-gill'd British Workman,
Muscovite hairy, or whiskered, moustache-twisting Turkman:
Downy-cheeked boy, or big, wire-brushy Don Whiskerando!—
All one to him! All that sharp steel and soap-lather can do
Here is a Barber will buckle to, blade-armed, instanter,
Challenge competitive rivals, and win in a canter.
Neat Nelly Wick (thirteen men in ten minutes) is rather
A good 'un to mow, to say naught of her champion father;
But this Grand Old Shaver would shave,—against time, too, yes, trust us!—
Elephas Primigenius (the Mammoth), or Brontops Robustus!
Truly a Tonsor Titanic to chin-needs to minister!
Yet are there some who declare his dexterity sinister;
Say that 'tis not without reason this bland badger-waver.
And stirrer of soap-suds, is called—well, an Artful Old Shaver.
Like most of his craft he the Gift of the Gab shares stupendously.
And takes by the nose and belathers, with soft-soap, tremendously.
They call him for custom from all sorts and sizes a cadger,
And swear that he badgers the Mob to submit to his badger.
Be that as it may—and his rivals do rail at him viciously—
If you require "a clean shave," rattled off expeditiously,
Lather that's fragrant and frothy, and steel that slides slickly,
Sit down in his chair, and he'll polish you off pretty quickly.
He's had two tough customers lately; a workman stiff-stubbled
(He looks at his gills in the glass with a glance slightly troubled),
And him the young yokel whose beard's like a big bed of thistles,
Who flops in the chair and demands to be shorn of his bristles.
To shave—against time—such a shag-beard as is this young rustic,
Is hard, and the chance of success seems a bit nubibustic.
But list! The old Champion Shaver is courteously glosing!
"Bit bristly, my friend, but I'll leave you clean-mown before closing!"
HIGHLY PROBABLE.
(A Conversation Tapped on its way through the Telephone.)
I say, how are you this morning?
Still rather weak. But the weather here is lovely, and I am enjoying myself immensely. I think I have discovered a new system.
Never mind about the tables. Thought you had gone to Nice.
No, Monte Carlo. It's more healthy, and they say that if you have success you should clear your expenses easily.
Yes, but I did not want to talk about that. You know there's been more outrages in Dublin? They have spread from Paris.
Have they? Get some Johnnie on the spot to look after them.
But I told the House that although you were in the South of France, you were in telegraphic touch with your colleagues.
What did you do that for? My doctor will be awfully angry.
I dare say. But what are you going to do about this dynamite scare?
Leave it to Rosebery; he's equal to anything and everybody.
Yes, as a rule; but not just now. He's on leave. Bad cold.
Well, let Asquith have a shot. He is a rising young man.
But he's away, too; and so is Harcourt, Spencer, Ripon, and the others. They all say they can do nothing further.
Sorry. Can I help it? Impossible to govern Ireland from Monte Carlo.
Not if you give your mind to it. But, of course, if you will go in for systems, you haven't much chance.
Well, frankly, I can't manage it. You must get some one else.
Sorry I can't.
Then what will you do?
Why, manage it myself. After all, if I have twice the years of you fellows I have four times the energy. As I am doing all the other work of the Ministry, I may as well make a complete job of it. I will do it myself!
"THE CHAMPION SHAVER!"
Mr. G. "YOU'RE A BIT BRISTLY, SIR, BUT I THINK WE SHALL POLISH YOU OFF BEFORE CLOSING TIME!!"
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
"The ever-advancing Woman," observes one of the