Volume 152 — TOP-O'-THE-MORNING.
Reading edition
Top-o'-the-Morning's shoes are off; He runs in the orchard, rough, all day; Chasing the hens for a turn at the trough, Fighting the cows for a place at the hay; With a coat where the Wiltshire mud has dried, With brambles caught in his mane and tail— Top-o'-the-Morning, pearl and pride Of the foremost flight of the White Horse Vale! The master he carried is Somewhere in France Leading a cavalry troop to-day, Ready, if Fortune but give him the chance, Ready as ever to show them the way, Riding as straight to his new desire As ever he rode to the line of old, Facing his fences of blood and fire With a brow of flint and a heart of gold. Do the hoofs of his horses wake a dream Of a trampling crowd at the covert-side, Of a lead on the grass and a glinting stream And Top-o'-the-Morning shortening stride? Does the triumph leap to his shining eyes As the wind of the vale on his cheek blows cold, And the buffeting big brown shoulders rise To his light heel's touch and his light hand's hold? When the swords are sheathed and the strife is done, And the cry of hounds is a call to men; When the straight-necked Wiltshire foxes run And the first flight rides on the grass again; May Top-o'-the-Morning, sleek of hide, Shod, and tidy of mane and tail, Light, and fit for a man to ride, Lead them once more in the White Horse Vale!
W.H.O.
Polygamy in Workington.
"Supper was served by some of the wives of some of the members."—Workington News.
TRAGEDY OF A DUTIFUL WIFE.
"I SAY, THAT MRS. DASHWOOD SPIFFINGTON SEEMS A JOLLY WOMAN—WHAT?" "ISN'T SHE A LITTLE—ER——"
"NOT A BIT OF IT. A WOMAN OUGHT TO BE CHEERY, ESPECIALLY IN THESE TIMES." "I SEE, DEAR."
"WHAT ON EARTH——?"
"I'M MAKING A NEW HAT, DEAR. I SAW MRS. DASHWOOD SPIFFINGTON WEARING ONE VERY LIKE THIS."
"GREAT HEAVENS! WHAT ARE YOU CUTTING YOUR NEW DRESS TO BITS FOR?"
"IT'S ALL RIGHT, DEAR. MRS. DASHWOOD SPIFFINGTON HAS ONE QUITE AS SHORT AS THIS."
"GOOD LORD! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO YOUR FACE?"
"MRS. DASHWOOD SPIFFINGTON ALWAYS MAKES UP A LITTLE WHEN SHE'S GOING OUT. OH—I FORGOT TO TELL YOU—I HAVEN'T ORDERED ANY DINNER, AS I THOUGHT WE MIGHT GO AND DINE AT A RESTAURANT."
"AREN'T YOU MAKING YOURSELF RATHER CONSPICUOUS?"
"BUT I THOUGHT YOU LIKED CHEERY PEOPLE LIKE MRS. DASHWOOD SPIFFINGTON."
"I'M AWFULLY SORRY, DEAR. I OUGHT TO HAVE PRACTISED SMOKING. I EXPECT MRS. DASHWOOD SPIFFINGTON——"
"D—— MRS. DASHWOOD SPIFFINGTON!"
"VERY WELL, DEAR."
THE PINCH OF WAR.
Lady of the House (War Profiteer's wife, forlornly). "THEY'VE JUST TAKEN OUR THIRD FOOTMAN; AND IF ANY MORE OF OUR MEN HAVE TO GO WE SHALL CLOSE THE HOUSE AND LIVE AT THE RITZ UNTIL THE WAR IS OVER—(brightly)—HOWEVER, WE MUST ALL SACRIFICE SOMETHING."
OVER-WEIGHT.
Scene: A London Terminus.
Porter (with an air of finality). It weighs 'undred-and-four pounds. You can't take it, mum.
Lady Traveller. Oh, I must take it.
[Porter is obliged by an irritation of the head to remove his cap, but does not speak.
Lady Traveller. It's all right. I know the manager of the line, and he would pass it for me.
Her Friend. Isn't your friend manager of the Great Southern?
Lady Traveller (sharply). He has a great deal to do with all these railways now. (To Porter, hopefully, but not very confidently) That will be all right.
Porter. Very sorry, mum. It can't be done.
Lady Traveller. My friend the manager would be very much annoyed at my being stopped like this. Only four pounds, too. Why, it's nothing.
[Porter removes his cap again on account of further irritation.
Lady Traveller (to her Friend). I don't know what I'm to do. (To Porter) What am I to do?
Porter (deliberately). You must open it and take somethink out.
Lady Traveller. I can't open it here.
Porter (ignoring this). Somethink weighing a bit over four pounds.
Lady Traveller. But I can't do it here.
Porter (ignoring this). Pair o' boots or somethink.
Lady Traveller (to her Friend). He seems to think my boots weigh four pounds.
Her Friend. Haven't you got two pairs?
Lady Traveller (sourly). Yes, but two pairs of my boots wouldn't weigh four pounds.
Porter (who has been quietly undoing the straps). Is it locked, mum?
Lady Traveller (producing key and almost in tears). It's too bad.
[She dives into box and extracts two pairs of boots wrapped in newspapers.
Porter (taking them and weighing them judiciously in his hands). That's all right, mum.
[He pushes box on to weighing machine which registers under 100 lbs.
Lady Traveller. They're very thick boots, of course. Whatever am I to do with them now?
Her Friend. We shall have to carry them. [Takes one parcel.
Lady Traveller. Jane shall hear of this. I told her never to use newspaper for packing.
Her Friend (suddenly). There's Major Merriman.
Lady Traveller. So it is. Don't let him see us with these dreadful parcels. (Angrily) Why don't you turn round? He'll see you.
Major Merriman. How do you do?
Lady Traveller (in great surprise). Oh, how do you do, Major Merriman? We've been having such an amusing experience, etc., etc.
What made Lord Devonport Dizzy.
"The following resolution was unanimously passed, and ordered to be sent to the Prime Minister and the Food Controller (Lord Beaconsfield)."—The Western Gazette.
"Lamp-posts and trees and other pedestrians were found with unpleasant and sometimes violent frequency."—Beckenham Journal.
That's the worst of a fog; landmarks will keep on walking about.
À propos of the TSAR'S manifesto:—
"The Retch, says: 'The order puts the dot on all the "t's. " ' " —Provincial Paper.
It is a far, far better thing to dot your "t's" than cross your "i's."
THE DAWN OF DOUBT.
GRETCHEN. "I WONDER IF THIS GENTLEMAN REALLY IS MY GOOD ANGEL AFTER ALL!"
Benevolent Gentleman. "YOU MUST BE CAREFUL, MY MAN, OR YOU WILL GET CLERGYMAN'S SORE THROAT."