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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 107, December 29th 1894
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, Volume 107, December 29th 1894
Punch, or the London Charivari
Volume 107, December 29th 1894
edited by Sir Francis Burnand
THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON
(Founded upon the Farce of Christmas Cards.)
Scene—A London Drawing Room. Paterfamilias discovered reading a paper, and Materfamilias superintending the despatch of a number of cards.
Mater. (in a tone of irritation). I really think, John, that, considering you have nothing earthly to do this afternoon, you might come and help me.
Pater. You have said that twice before, my dear. Don't you see I am enjoying myself?
Mater. So like you! As if you couldn't give up that stupid paper—you declare there's no news in it—and do me a favour!
Pater. (putting down his paper). Well, anything for a quiet life! What is it?
Mater. I am sending a card to Mrs. Brown.
Pater. (taking up his paper again). Send it.
Mater. My dear John, do attend. I want to know what I shall put into the envelope.
Pater. (giving up paper, and examining Christmas Cards with some vague show of interest). Oh, well—here. (Casually picking up a picture of a country churchyard by moonlight). Won't this be the sort of thing?
Mater. (shocked). How can you, John! Don't you know that Mrs. Brown lost her husband only a year ago?
Pater. Then why are you wishing her "A Merry Christmas"?
Mater. Well, you see she has married again, and so I thought of sending her something with "A Happy New Year" in it.
Pater. (taking up a card showing an owl in an ivy bush). Why not this?
Mater. Well that would be better, but then she might think that the owl was intended for a sneer at her second husband. And then I always like to keep the happy new year cards till Christmas is over, as you can send them afterwards to the people who have remembered you when you have forgotten them.
Pater. But you wouldn't have "A Merry Christmas," and now you object to "A Happy New Year." What do you want?
Mater. Can't you get something impersonal?
Pater. (taking up card). Well, here's a yacht in full sail.
Mater. Oh, how cruel! It will remind her of her cousin who was lost at sea!
Pater. (selecting another sketch). Then why not this bouquet of flowers?
Mater. Not for worlds! One never knows what the flowers may mean, and we might offend her.
Pater. (trying again). Well, here is a windmill.
Mater. My dear John, you are absolutely provoking. A windmill is suggestive of frivolity, and I wouldn't let Mrs. Brown think that we meant that on any account.
Pater. (making another selection). Well, here's a parrot in a cage.
Mater. You surely are not serious? Fancy sending such a card! Why, as everyone knows that dear Mrs. Brown is rather talkative, all the world would say it was an "insult."
Pater. (losing patience). Oh, hang Mrs. Brown!
Mater. I am ashamed of you, John! And I suppose you would hang the cards, too! You would curse "Merry Christmas."
Pater. (promptly). That I would, and what is more, I would—well never mind—the glad New Year!
[Scene closing in upon an anti-seasonable squabble.
Disgusted Keeper (who has just beaten up a brace or so of Pheasants, which young Snookson has missed "clane and clever"—to dog, which has been "going seek" and "going find" from force of habit). "Ah, Ruby, Ruby, bad dog! T' heel, Ruby, t' heel! Ah muust apologise for Ruby, Sir. You see, Ruby's been accustomed to pick 'em up!"
THREE CHRISTMAS GREETINGS.
I sit, and let my thoughts fly free;
Lo, these my Christmas greetings go
To three good friends beyond the sea.
Vain is the winter tempest's wrack,
It cannot keep my greetings back.
How purposeless and blind ye are,
Like fate, for fate was surely blind
That bade my three friends range afar.
Like mine, perchance, their fancy strays
To other scenes and distant days.
My flaxen-haired American,
Brave heart, grey eye, unclouded brow,
Two stalwart yards of wilful man,
How oft in laughter and in song
With you I sped the hours along.
Too swift the unreturning hours
In that old town of Hall and court,
Of ancient gateways flanked with towers,
Where once we feared the near exam...
And dared the dons, and stirred the Cam.
(As Bumble said, the law's a hass)
And argue, as I note with awe,
For litigants in Boston, Mass.;
And, though you wear no warlike suit,
They call you "General" to boot.
In that drear country of the North?
Too great your needs, your means too few,
A whim of temper drove you forth.
On far Vancouver's shore, alone
You hear the sad Pacific moan.
Your life all fire, and storm, and fret,
Against relentless fate you strove,
But strove in vain—and yet, and yet
God shapes in storm and fire his plan,
And moulds a world or makes a man.
Some fortunate, some golden prize;
Then be it mine to see once more
Those friendly, lustrous, Irish eyes.
Return and face with us your fate,
The world is small and England great.
But never shall I clasp his hand,
Whose