قراءة كتاب Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 109, September 7, 1895
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. 109, September 7, 1895
heye! You boss till you're blind, and then death hups and shuts it!"
We kid, and we kibosh each other like fun, but when H. J. wants backing old Billy's the party,
And when Billy busts Jack is all there, you bet, although I tool a Forder and 'e a old Growler.
But pickles ain't in it for sourness with Billy, nor yet fresh-laid widders for doin' the 'owler.
With sech a smart, dashing young Jehu as you, as can put on your quarter o' mile to the minute!
Hivory fitments, and bevel-edged mirrors! A lady's boodwore in blue cloth! Ain't it 'trotty'?
Wanity Fair upon wheels, Jack, I call it. Wot price now I wonder for me and Old Spotty?
Few years agone they'd a fynted at thought on it. Women fair knock-outs. Could never get at 'em!
Foller their leaders like sheep to a slorter-'ouse. Drive theirselves next, I persoom, on a Forder.
Party you took up outside 'ere larst night, 'er in feathers and paint, was a pooty tall horder."
You couldn't 'a' button-holed. Ah! and she's pooty as paint—bar the paint—at this moment, Lord luv 'er!
Frolicsome, freehanded,—fast? Well, I s'pose so. She used to drive up with a toffy young masher.
Turtle-doves? Well,'twas a pleasure to see 'em, Bill; 'er such a dainty 'un, 'im such a dasher."
She took to sewing, and dropped smiles and 'ansoms. Wilted away like a gas-shrivelled lily.
Then I lost sight on 'er, couple o' year or so. Next she turned up as—well, Billy you've seen 'er,
Pro. at the "Pompydour," generous, gassy, and—well, p'r'aps as good as a lot that look greener."
"Life as it's seen from the cab-driver's 'pulpit' would give some new texts to a Parker or Spurgeon.
Culler-der-rose, indeed! Yaller-der-janders! It's most on it dubersome, dirty or dingy.
The free 'anded fares is best part on 'em quisby, and them as is righteous runs sour-like and stingy."
'E growls as 'e munches, "of all the green bunches o' Spring inguns you are the greenest. It's silly,
Your slop-over sentiment is, for a Cabby!!!"—Fare? "Finsbury Park, and look slippy!" "All right, Sir!"—
"We'll argue it out, Billy Boger, some other time." Right away coachman! Kim up mare! Good night, Sir!
The words of that arch-humourist, the late Artemus Ward, on the subject of the New Woman, whom he designated "a he-lookin' female," are worth repeating:—"'O, woman, woman,' I cried, my feelins worked up to a hi poetick pitch, 'you air a angle when you behave yourself; but when you take off your proper appairel and (mettyforically speaken) get into pantyloons—when you desert your firesides, and with your heds full of wimin's rites noshuns go round like roarin lyons, seekin whom you may devour someboddy—in short, when you undertake to play the man, you play the devil and air an emfatic noosence. My female friends,' I continnered, as they were indignantly departin, 'wa well what A. Ward has sed!'"
"Wouldn't you like some Music, Professor?"
"No, thanks. I'm quite happy as I am. To tell you the truth, I prefer the worst possible Conversation to the best Music there is!"
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI.
A Ballad of Bird Slaughter.
(With Apologies to the Shade of Keats.)
"The new style of women's head-gear—called mixed plumes—threatens to add the extermination of Birds of Paradise to that of several species of herons.... It is for this 'use' that whole heronries in Florida and elsewhere have been utterly destroyed; it is for this that Birds of Paradise are being persecuted even to extinction."—Mrs. E. Phillips, Vice-President of the Society for the Preservation of Birds.
Alone and palely loitering?
"The wings are banished from the woods,
And no birds sing."
So haggard and so woe-begone?
"The heronry no more is full,
And the cranes are flown."
At dawn's rose-flush, at eve's cool dew.
"Bird-song is gone from the garden rose,
And the field flowers too.
Fell, beautiful, cold Fashion's child;
Her hair was golden, her plume was high,
And her eyes were wild.
Of heron crest and aureole.
She looked at me as void of love,
And cold of soul.
