LITTLE MASTER MINORITY.
Reading edition
Brother Jonathan. "WA'AL, MR. JOSEPH; I GUESS ALL YOUR SYMPATHIES ARE WITH THIS LITTLE CUSS?"
Mr. Chamberlain. "NOT AT ALL, NOT AT ALL,—ON YOUR SIDE OF THE ATLANTIC!"
THE BOOM IN BEETLES—THE LATEST FROM AFRICA.
["The new arrival at the Zoo is a specimen of the Goliath Beetle from West Africa—a giant even among its own kind."—Daily Graphic.]
TO A LOST FRIEND.
(By a Briefless Barrister.)
No more! alas! completely gone, No shadow of a trace is left, And I have still to linger on, Of your companionship bereft, And fight the battle to the end, As best I may with one less friend. It seems a cruel stroke of Fate. How eagerly I watched you grow! How much I loved you; how elate When other people came to know On what I always had insisted— That you in point of fact existed. I played with you, who every day Grew more responsive to my touch. I stroked you in the gentlest way, With sweet caresses. Ah! how much We seemed, as though a child and mother, To be bound up in one another. You did appear to like me then, No mere lip-service seemingly Was that you rendered to me when You never contradicted me, But hung upon my words, though true It also was they hung on you. And then one day you disappeared, Cut off in life's most sunny prime. I missed you sadly as I feared And thought I should do at the time. Though now your image comes and plain Grows on me sometimes once again. Oh! my moustache! I did the deed, I own it frankly, I alone. I felt it (for it made me bleed), Yet still you always must have known, Though you were of proportions regal, You hardly helped me to look legal.
A Triumph in Cookery.—When the Cook makes a hash of the marrow-bones.
"He is a Mann, take him for all in all, We never want to look upon his like again." (Shakspeare adapted).—It is said he is going to join the Ministry—not the Cabinet—but that of the Established Church. But how will so independent a spirit ever submit to "take orders" from an Archbishop? This is to reduce himself from a Mann to a Mannikin. Not likely.
Up to Date Translation.—"Qu'est-ce qu'il y a sur le tapis?" asked the Frenchman. "You mean 'what's on the tape?'" returned the Englishman.
THE IDEAL DRAMA.
Oh think what a change would soon be wrought In sins society now condones, Were virtue and honesty properly taught By Comedy's smiles and Tragedy's groans! The peer, the scholar, the fool, the fop, Could learn deportment, high-class, tip-top, From a Dancing Girl in a Bauble Shop— At least so thinks Mr. H. A. Jones. We shall call it "the work," and not "the play," When due solemnity prompts the tones Of serious actors, more grave than gay; They may be bores, but they won't be drones. So learn, should you wish to have a spree, What your Criterion ought to be, Or the Tempter will put you up a Tree. Hear eloquent Mr. H. A. Jones! Amusement? What! Do you dare to think That those respectable classic crones, Melpomene, Thalia, they should sink To make you laugh, like a nigger Bones? If you should expect to be amused, Your money would simply be refused, And you would be turned away, abused By furious Mr. H. A. Jones.
THE ETERNAL FITNESS OF THINGS.
"And what is your Name?"
"Marian Watson. But my last Mistress used to call me Mary, because Marian isn't a proper name for a Servant, she said."