Punch, Or the London Charivari
Volume 107, December 8th, 1894
edited by Sir Francis Burnand

A TRIUMPH OF THE SCHOOL BOARD.

The collector of statistics was fairly posed by the attitude assumed by his visitor. The elderly lad (or, rather, very young man) had claimed admittance on the score that he was an "old boy" of the School Board. He wished to give his evidence anent the fate of the State-educated juvenile population.

"And you say you are not one of the 547 clerks?" queried the collector.

"No Sir, I am not. I would rather beg my bread from door to door than occupy a lofty stool from dawn to sundown."

"And you are not one of the 413 milkboys?"

"Again, no. It has been a tradition in our family for centuries to avoid water, so how could I dabble in the milk trade?"

"And you are neither an actor, a jockey, nor a hairdresser?"

"I am not," was again the reply, couched in a tone of hauteur.

"And you are not a soldier—one of the ten that left the School Board for the more or less tented field?"

"I am not—nor a sailor."

Then the collector of statistics paused for a moment, and spoke with a measure of hesitation.

"You have not gone to the bad?"

"Like my 333 schoolfellows?"

"Yes."

Then the red blood of the visitor mounted to the roots of his hair and suffused his cheeks with crimson. He indignantly denied the imputation. He might be poor, but at any rate he was honest. "No, he had never been in prison."

"Then what are you?" asked the collector, in a tone not entirely free from traces of annoyance. "Surely you must be something!"

"I am more than something!" returned the visitor, proudly. "I am unique—I am a curiosity."

"What may you be?"

"I am a boy, educated by the School Board, who is satisfied to follow in the footsteps of his father. My father was a bricklayer, and I am satisfied to lay bricks myself."

"My dear Sir," said the collector, grasping him cordially by the hand, "I congratulate you. This is the first time I have met a boy who has been satisfied to adopt the trade followed by his parent. And now you can do me a small favour." And then the collector engaged his guest to renovate the walls of his house, which (on account of the scarcity of trained labour) had for many years been sadly out of repair.

GOING TO EXTREMES.

He of the Ruffled Temper. "As sure's ma name's Tammas Paterson, I'll hae the law o' ye, though it should cost me Hauf-a-Croon!"

More Memories by Dean Hole.—We are gradually getting at the Hole Truth. Not a deep Hole, but a good all-round Hole, and, as a whole, eminently readable when you have a half Holeyday to spare.

Suggestion.—The Egyptian Hall is advertised as "The Home of Mystery." Mightn't the Lyceum be entitled, for advertisement purposes, as "The Home of Miss Terry?"

THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH.

V.—The Parish Meeting.

Mudford, December 4, 11.30 P.M.

The Parish Meeting—long looked for, eagerly expected, anxiously anticipated—has come and gone. It has been indeed an interesting and eventful night.

The meeting was called for half-past seven, and, when I reached the schoolroom, at two minutes before that time, the room was packed with parochial electors. A subdued cheer broke out as I entered, and, bowing my acknowledgments, I found my way to a seat in the front row, which a thoughtful overseer had reserved for me, his fellow overseer being stationed at the door to see that only those were admitted who had got on the wedding garment; or, to put it in a different way, whose names were on the Register. I soon saw that, practically, everyone was present. There were the Marchites, the Letham Havittites, and Black Bob and his following, whilst the Vicar and the Squire were there, to lend an air of real intelligence and respectability to the whole affair. It never struck me before, though, how dull a man the Vicar is when you see him without his daughters—who, of course, were not present.

Punctually at 7.30 the overseer asked the meeting to proceed to elect a chairman. There was a hush of expectant silence, and then Black Bob jumped up and proposed me. I had taken a great interest in the subject, and the tremendous amount I knew about it made me the most suitable person to take the chair that evening. A warm glow of satisfaction came over me, which deepened into a sense of burning joy when Mrs. March seconded the motion, which was agreed to unanimously.

I took the chair, and after a hurried glance at my instructions, invited nominations to be sent in to me. Seven were sent in in the first two minutes—nominations of the seven who had previously issued election addresses. Then came an awful and an awkward pause. I waited, for I had to wait for a quarter of an hour—the instructions told me to. It was un mauvais quart d'heure. Of course I was waiting for my own nomination. It is a humiliating fact to have to record, but it did not come. Then the whole thing became clear to me; my election to the chair was a sop to console me for being shunted from the Parish Council. But I was not to be fobbed off in this way. I put my hand in my pocket, and a minute before the time was up produced a nomination paper which I had got my gardener and coachman to sign. It is always well to be prepared for accidents.

However, even bad quarters of an hour come to an end, and at the end of the remaining minute I announced that as I had been nominated myself, I could not stay in the chair. This was evidently an unexpected turn, but Mrs. Letham Havitt was equal to the occasion. She proposed the assistant-overseer. He was elected, declared all the eight nomination papers were in order, and then threw the meeting open to questions.

The heckling began at once. I was the first victim over that confounded Free Trout-fishing. Was I in favour of it? I said that as all there was belonged to me, it was obvious I could hardly be expected to answer the question. Mrs. Arble March and Mrs. Letham Havitt said they were prepared to use all the powers the Act conferred as to free fishing. I noticed that a curious smile lurked round the mouths of both, and I should have said, if I had not thought it to be too incredible to be true, that Mrs. March almost winked her eye. Anyhow, the meeting cheered, and seemed satisfied. Black Bob made a long and impassioned speech, in which he called the Act the Charter of the Peasants' Liberty. This, too, evoked great enthusiasm. Finally the questioning flickered out, no one withdrew their candidature, and the voting commenced. I had previously noticed that there were 173 electors present. My name—Winkins—came last. Marvellous to relate, 173 hands were held up for each of the first seven candidates—for I thought it only a courteous thing to vote for my opponents. When my name was put, only 59 hands went up. It will be noticed that the total number of votes was more than seven times the number of votes, and no one ought to have voted more than seven times! The show of hands was a fraud and a farce, so it was only in common justice to the parish and myself that I should demand a poll.