Volume 150 — MUSINGS ON MILK-CANS.

When I travel up to London by an early morning train Or return into the country when the day is on the wane, At the smallest railway station There's a dreadful demonstration Which causes me unmitigated pain. I'm aware that milk is needed for our infant girls and boys; That it aids adult dyspeptics to regain "digestive poise"; But I've never comprehended Why its transport is attended By the maximum of diabolic noise. I admit the railway porter who can deftly twirl a can In each hand along the platform is no ordinary man; But what kills me is the banging And the clashing and the clanging As he hurls them in or hauls them from the van. Now if some new material for these vessels could be found— Non-metallic and in consequence a silencer of sound— There would be within our borders Fewer nerve and brain disorders And more of moral uplift to go round. I know a dashing journalist, a credit to his trade, Who's always in the thick of it whenever there's a raid. Bombs of various sorts and sizes He describes and analyses, But he can't endure a long milk-cannonade. I've written to our Member, Dr. Philadelphus Snell, To ask a question in the House—I think he'd do it well— If our cows' nerves should be mangled By the way their milk is jangled; And, if he doesn't play, I'll try Ginnell.