Punch: Punch (75.1878)

GENTLE AND SIMPLE.

Young Sportsman. "Does your Father preserve at all?"

Ingenuous Maiden. "Oh, no ; we use all our Fruit for making Tarts

" WHERE ABE WE NOW ?"

Bull, {halting and hesitating). I say, where are we going- ?
Drover (reassuringly). Oh, all right!

You follow me!
Bull. By faith, and not hy sight!

But, to tell truth, I'm getting precious tired.
Drover. Pooh! pooh ! Your staying powers are much admired.

Prestige, you know ! You must maintain that.
Bull. Must I ?

Somehow the phrase seems getting flat and fusty.
Drover. Prestige is your palladium. Come along!

You surely don't suppose I'd lead you wrong ?
Bull. Oh, no! But—well, I'm really hound to say,

That this is not at all the sort of way

In which you swore to lead me. 'Twas to be

A path of peace, and jocund jollity ;

A nappy pasture steeped in holy calm,

The mead all flowerets, and the air all balm,

A sort of bovine Beulah, lapt in joy,

No one to harass, nothing to annoy,

No ropes, no rings, and, above all, no goads.

But th is is darkest, ruggedest of roads !
Drover. This is mere hare-brained chatter, of the quality

I must call " irresponsible frivolity."

A solid brute like you should have more sense

Than to indulge in Ilhodian eloquence.
Bull. More firework-phrases ! But somehow they fail

To tickle me. Fine ribbons at my tail,

And rose-wreaths round my horns are not enough

To save me from fatigue and fear.
Drover. Oh, stuff!

Taurus turned timorous ?
Bull. _ Not at all! but where

Is this long-promised pasture ?
Drover {with a sweeping flourish). Over there!
Bull. That's vague, like all your promises—there ! See !

The sky ahead's as black as black can be,

We '11 have a storm, I guess,—a regular pelter.
Drover. All the more reason to make sure of shelter.
Bull. Yes, but I see none.
Drover. Oh, you will anon.

Trust wholly to my guidance and come on!

These fields are pleasant, but not well protected,

Their boundaries require to be corrected,

Somewhat enlarged, perhaps, just here and there.

Rectification-

Bull. Stop! I do not care

For wider ranging.
Drover. Nay, now, do not chafe.

At least you 'd like your pales and hedges safe ?

At present they're haphazard, rambling, weak,

A Scientific Frontier 's what we seek.
Bull. What's that ?

Drover (aside). Plague take the brute! What shall I say f

He did not use to question me this way.

(Aloud.) A scientific frontier is,—a border

Imperial not empirical! In order

That blessing to secure I'm striving ever

AVith all devices that are darkly clever,

I look to you to back me up, of course,

With all your resolution and resource.
Bull, All vastly fine! but I am very weary,

And the look-out is neither clear nor cheery.

Fatigued and fogged, I mean to make a stand,

And the true end of all this toil demand.

You know where you are going, I suppose,

But I tramp blindly on, led by the nose !

America's Idea of Arbitration.—"Heads I win, tails you
lose."

Advice to Holders of Doubtful Stock.—Grin and "Bear" it.