Punch: Punch (76.1879)

42

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

^[February 1, 1879.

A CHAPTER ON NATURAL HISTORY.

Jack. "Just look at that sneak of a Robin ! Wouldn't I Catapult him if I hah a chance! "
Clara. "Catapult a Robin! For shame, Jack!"

Jack. "Oh, it's all very well, but if there is a Bird I hate more than another, it's a Robin. They come sneaking

UP TO tou IN THE WlNTER, WHEN they WANT CRUMBS—JUST LIKE THE FELLOWS AT SCHOOL WHEN YOU 'VE GOT A HAMPER—AND
THEN, IN the SUMMER, WHEN THEY 'VE GOT their HAMPER, THEY WON'T LOOK AT YOU ! "

'AERY ON 'IGH ART.

Dear Charlie,

TnE picters you sent me were proper—my style to a touch.
I've had 'em hung up in my den, and my pals like the style of 'em
much.

That gal in Turk togs is a screamer. Wot eyes ! and her figger !—
well there !

She's as spicy as them there Swell photos, as set arf the town
on the stare.

That 'a Art, my dear hoy, and no gammon; hut lots as now goes by
that name

Is no better than riddles to me, and I'm blowed if I'm fly to its
game.

" Wot of that, festive bloater ? " sez you. " 'Taint the sort for your
kidney, old pal."

Right you are, but I've bin in it lately, wus luck, all along of a gal.

She 'a a kind of a sort of third cousin of ours, in town on a visit to
dad:

So I've had to come the star-walker. She has got the rummiest

Exhibitions and galleries and that is her mark. Just imagine, old
man!

Stone images, picters, engravings, and such-like artistic cold scran !

The things that I've seen this last fortnit! I 'ate exhibitions like
sin;

Yawn-shops every one; but then Loo has prime eyes, and her
Gruv'nor has tin.

And so I've bin doing the rounds, and, though I mayn't be much
of a judge,

Seems to me, for a chap up to snuff, your Tgh Art is just out-and-
out fudge.

Elevating the masses be blowed! Wot's the good of your blooming
Anteek ?

A lot of old scarecrows in blankets, barefooted,'and big in the beak.
I would rather a jolly long shot see the poses or Madame Two-
swords,

And I ventured to say so to Loo, who declared she was shocked at my
words.

Stone gals ain't my mark, not a mite; only fit to stick up in the
squares,

Or hold lamps in a Music-'All lobby. The stone-chippers give their-
selves airs;

But sandals, and swords, and rum togs, all atwist and chucked on
anyhow,

Though they might have been nuts to the Greeks, ain't the right
sort of thing for us now.

Such togs are a floorer to me. I asked Loo how she'd cotton to wear
A rig-out like Venus or Physic, or some sech a name as that 'ere:
(Loo rhymes it to Crikey, I fancy. Ain't Sikey a neat sort o' name ?)
Of course she just sniffed and shut up, but it nailed her, old man, all
the same.

I like limbs as is limbs, my dear Charlie, and faces as ain't got the
chalks;

A fig for your Classical attitoods, wobbles, and slommocking walks !
Slantindicular saints on the goggle, and mooiiey young women in

With their'muslins all twisted tight round 'em don't elevate me, I
must say.

Loo says I'm a reglar Philistian ; I fancy she means that for chaff.
Goliath wos of the Chang inches, and / ain't five foot and a
half,