Volume 156 — THE SAUSAGE ROLL.
Reading edition
THE VERY LATEST DANCE.
[To any English composer who has not yet contributed to the wave of music and dance which is now sweeping the country the writer offers the following as the basis of an entirely new and original dance, strictly national in character and full of that quaint old rustic, not to say aboriginal, grace which distinguishes modern dance-music.]
Oh say, won't you stay down-away at the Sausage Farm? It's a scream, it wouldn't seem you could dream such perfect ch-e-arm; You can bet that Jazz'll be beat to a frazzle, And the old Fox Trot'll be a pale green mottle, When they gauge what's the rage of the age at the Sausage Farm. (CRASH! BANG! TINKLE!) Come along, you'll be wrong if you miss that Sausage Roll. Every pig does the jig, for he's in this heart and so-ul: See the old sow shout, "What about my litter?" But she dries those tears when she hears, poor crittur, That they're all at the Ball in the Soss-Soss-Sausage Roll. (TZING! BOOM! The lights go out.) Oh, haste, life's a waste till you're based at the Sausage Farm, Where the dog and the hog and the frog go arm-in-arm; And the farm-yard bosses can all do Sosses; The old man's crazy, and his poor Aunt Maisie, Over this hit of bliss (have a kiss) at Sausage Farm. (CLATTER! BUMP! The walls begin to crack.) Come a-quick, you'll be sick if you miss that Sausage Roll, For the cow does it now and the cat we can't contro-ol, And I heard as she purred, "Oh, I've found my kittens, You could bet they'd get with the best-born Britons, For they're all at the Ball in the Soss-Soss-Sausage Roll." (CRASH! BANG! The roof falls in.)
A.P.H.
A Tall Order.
"SHANGHAI MUNICIPAL COUNCIL POLICE FORCE.—Police recruits are now required. Applicants must be unmarried, of good physique, with sound teeth, about 20 to 25 years of age, not less than 57 ft. 10 in. in height."—Weekly Paper.
"Lloyd's agent at Chriseiansund telegraphs that wreckage marked 'Wilson Line' drifted ashore near Switzerland."—Provincial Paper.
Following the WILSON line the seas appear to be already behaving with unusual freedom.
"'George Eliot' (Mary Ann Evans), the gifted Warwickshire authoress, who wrote 'Adam Bede' and several other popular works."—Daily Telegraph.
We have noticed the name from time to time, and we are glad to know who "GEORGE ELIOT" was.
From a "multiple shop" catalogue:—
"SMOKING ROOM.—The decorations are well worth a special note, and are quite unique of their kind, being without a match anywhere."
Surely not "unique." We know a lot of smoking-rooms equally matchless.
THE FIRST GERMAN VICTORY.
[The German Elections have resulted in a signal defeat for the Extremists.]
Hostess (to small guest, who is casting lingering glances at the cakes). "I DON'T THINK YOU CAN EAT ANY MORE OF THOSE CAKES, CAN YOU, JOHN?"
John. "NO, I DON'T THINK I CAN. BUT MAY I STROKE THEM?"