Volume 100 — CHAPTER IV.
Reading edition
Again—again—again! The moon rose, shimmering like a Marron Glacé over Paris. Oh! Paris, beauteous city of the lost. Surely in Babylon or in Nineveh, where SEMIRAMIS of old queened it over men, never was such madness—madness did I say? Why? What did I mean? Tush! the struggle is over, and I am calm again, though my blood still hums tumultuously. The world is very evil. My father died choked by a marron. I, too, am dead—I who have written this rubbish—I am dead, and sometimes, as I walk, my loved one glides before me in aërial phantom shape, as on page 4, Vol. II. But I am dead—dead and buried—and over my grave an avenue of gigantic chestnuts reminds the passer-by of my fate: and on my tombstone it is written, "Here lies one who danced a cancan and ate marrons glacés all day. Be warned!" THE END.
QUITE EXCEPTIONAL THEATRICAL NEWS.—Next Thursday at the Vaudeville, the Press and the usual Free-Admissionaries will be let in for Money.
MORE KICKS THAN HALFPENCE.
"The root of Volunteer inefficiency is to be ascribed to the Volunteer officer. The men are such as their officers make them ... The force is 1,100 officers short of its proper complement."—Times.
General Redtape (of the Intelligence Department, W.O.) "WHAT! GOING TO RESIGN!"
Volunteer Officer. "YES. WHY SHOULD I ONLY GET YOUR KICKS FOR MY HALFPENCE?"
MORE KICKS THAN HALFPENCE.
Volunteer Officer, loquitur.—
Yes, take back the sword! Though the Times may expostulate, Tired am I wholly of worry and snubs. You'll find, my fine friend, what your folly has cost you, late, Henceforth for me the calm comfort of Clubs! To lounge on a cushion and hear the balls rattle 'Midst smoke-fumes, and sips on the field of green cloth, Is better than leading slow troops to sham battle, In stupid conditions that rouse a man's wrath. Commissions, they say, go a-begging. Precisely! Incapables take them, but capables shy. For twenty-one years you have harried us nicely. And now, like the rest, we're on Strike, Sir. And why? The game, you old fossil, is not worth the candle, Your kicks for my halfpence? The bargain's too bad! If you want bogus leaders sham soldiers to handle, You'll now have to take duffers, deadheads, and cads! The Times wisely says you should make it attractive, This Volunteer business. But that's not your game. You're actively snubby, or coldly inactive: We pay, and you pooh-pooh! 'Tis always the same. We do not mind giving our time and our money, Or facing March blasts, or the floods of July; But till nettles bear grapes, Sir, or wasps yield us honey, You won't get snubbed men to pay up and look spry. The "multiplication of camps and manoeuvres"? All right! Let us learn in a soldierlike school; But what is the good of your Bisleys and Dovers. If the whole game resolves into playing the fool? To play that game longer and pay for it too, Sir, Won't suit me at all. I'm disgusted and bored. Your kicks for my halfpence? No, no, it won't do, Sir! And therefore, old Tapenoddle—take back the sword!
TRUE SENTIMENT.
"I'M WRITING TO MRS. MONTAGUE, GEORGIE,—THAT PRETTY LADY YOU USED TO TAKE TO SEE YOUR PIGS. HAVEN'T YOU SOME NICE MESSAGE TO SEND HER?"
"YES, MUMMIE; GIVE HER MY LOVE, AND SAY I NEVER LOOK AT A LITTLE BLACK PIG NOW WITHOUT THINKING OF HER!"