Punch (95.1888)

28G

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [December 15, 1888.

IDENTITY.

Enthusiastic Amateur {at the National Gallery). "Can you tell me where I can find
the new ' Constable ' ?"

Hibernian Officer. " Shure it's Meeself te must mane, Sor ! I came on Jewtee here

for the forst toime this "week, Soil ! "

TOO ADVANCED SHEETS; OR, SEASONABLE LITERATURE A LA MODE.
Scene—A Publisher's Sanctum. Time, December 1st, 1888. Head of the Firm discovered.

To Mm enter Author.

Author. I have called, as I promised I would, with a MS., which I believe to be suitable to
your requirements.

Publisher. Most happy to receive it, my dear Sir, most happy. "What is it about ?
Author. It is a story intended for a Summer Number—for your next year's Summer
Number.

Publisher. My dear Sir, that was distributed last November. But what is it about ?
Author. I call it \ May Day in India."

Publisher. Turn it into " Christmas Eve at the North Pole," and perhaps we may be able
to find an opening for it.

Author. Well, the task is not impossible. I have carried out similar transformations.
But what would you do with it m its amended form ?

Publisher. "Why, pop it into our Christ-
mas Annual for 1889-90which is now in a
forward state of preparation.

Author. Surely you are a little early ?

Publisher. Not at all—next year we shall
produce our Christmas Annual in June!
And now, my dear Sir, having settled our
business, I am sure you will forgive me if I
withdraw. Fact is, we are just now busy
launching our Contemporary Magazine,
which we have decided to call The Twenty-
First Century ! [Fxit hurriedly.

TO MY HAIRDBESSER.

(Not to make Conversation.)

You tell me that the day is fine,
You say my hair is getting thin,

Anon you proffer Smearoline,
Or comment on my tender skin;

Good friend, for goodness' sake forbear,

I prithee only cut my hair.

For think—a shy, retiring man,

I shun the toilet's public rite,
Until my Cousins—Cousins can—

Reproach me for a Perfect Fright.
And must I bear, too shy to snub,
The babble of your Toilet Club f

I know, for every day for years

I've scann'd the glass with careful eye,
Whether the heaven clouds or clears,

"Whether the roads are wet or dry ;
Indeed, indeed, I do not care
Whether you think it foul or fair.
And why observe, with honied zest,

What men by many phrases call,
That phase which must be dubb'd at best

Unduly intellectual ?
What though my loftier temples shine,
That is no business of thine.

Think you, when, in your wrapper swathed,
I cower beneath the harrowing comb,

Or crouch, in creaming lather bathed,
Beneath the hose's numbing foam,

Or bear, while tears unbidden gush,

The rigours of your softest brush,—

Think you, at such a time as this,
I care to hear, with nerves unstrung,

The dirge of bygone days of bliss
Trip lightly from a stranger's tongue ?

What if your victim stood at bay,

And told you you were bald or grey ?

The head you handle like a block,
And brand with slighting comments cool,

Has bravely borne the battle's shock,
And starr'd the grey old walls at school;

Has sprained a Bishop's reverend wrist,

And badly bruised a Judge's fist.

They were not Judge and Bishop then,
But only chubby, scrubby boys;

And now they 're grave and reverend men.
I value those remember'd joys,

And grieve that evil should be said

About my own, my only head.

Your polities are nought to me ;

I '11 keep my views about the weather:
I only wish we could agree

That I am neither wood nor leather.
Be gentle ; 'tis the nobler plan,
And stint your chatter, if you can.

Goody Tea-Shoes.—The latest fad in the
way of fashion reported from the United
States is the fancy of a fair novelist who has
devised a sweet thing in shoes. Her own
slippers, designed for display at afternoon
tea, she has had made in the form of gloves,
each of her ten toes provided with " a sepa-
rate pocket of kid m which it rests like a
finger in the elongated pouch of a glove."
Evidently an wsthetic young lady this, with
quite a peculiar conception of the rb kok6v.