Punch: Punch (101.1891)

August 1, 1891.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON "CHARIVARI. 53

home is to go and hev a good square meal of creamed oysters and
clams with buckwheat cakes and maple syrup." Don't seem as if we
could git along without maple syrup much longer. (Miss Trotter
returns.) You never mean going out without your gums ?

Miss T. I guess it's not damp here—any—{To Podbury.) Now
you 're going to be Mary, and Father and I have got to be the little
lambs and follow you around.

{They go out, leaving Ccechard annoyed with himself and everybody
else, and utterly unable to settle down to his sonnet again.

Is as upper Corridor, two hours later.

Culch. {coming upon Podbury). So you've got rid of your
Americans at last, eh ? j be

when she saw me she always frowned. But ah, my shirts, my heir-
looms ! In the name of mercy, spare my shirts! "

But no, once more the appeal was disregarded. The small port-
manteau was turned inside out. This the official chalked.

" So this is one of the habits of the English," cried the foreigner,
bitterly.

"Not only the habits, Monsieur," observed a bystander, who
trembling with apprehension, was waiting his turn; "but the
customs. Customs that are oi.it of date with the age. Customs that
are contrary to the spirit of the century. Customs that cost more
than they yield, and deserve to be cussed ! "

They do," cried the foreigner, excitedly. "May the Customs

Podb. I was in no hurry, I can tell you. _ She's a ripping; " You must not utter that word," interrupted the Revenue Officer,

little girl—tremendous fun. "What do you think she asked me
about you ?

Culch. {stiff, but flattered). I wasn't aware"she had honoured me
by her notice. "What teas it ?

Podb. Said you had a sort of schoolmaster look, and wanted to
know if you were my tutor. My tutor ! {He roars.

Culch. I hope you—ah—undeceived her?

Podb. Rather! Told her it was t'other way round, and I was
looking after you. Said you were suffering from melancholia, but
were not absolutely dangerous.

Culch. If that's your idea of a joke, all I can say is-

{He chokes with rage.

Podb. {innocently). Why, nay dear chap, I thought you wanted
'em kept out of your way !

[Culchard slams his bedroom door with temper, leaving
Podbury outside, still chuckling.

THE WRONG OF SEARCH.

{A Dream of the British Inquisition,)

The unfortunate foreigner, travel-stained and suffering from the
after-glow of a stormy passage, crawled up the gangway and was
once more on land. He carried in his hand a portmanteau.

"Have you anything to declare?" asked an official, in a gold-
peaked cap and blue frock coat, gruffly.

" Only that your seas are terrible," was the reply.

The official made no answer, but merely pointed to some planks
that had been placed upon trestles. The foreigner glanced at the
people who were standing in front of these planks, and noticed that
they were pale with apprehension.

"HaA'e you anyth ng to declare?" was a second time uttered—
now by a person less gold-laced. Then the official continued,
" Here, open it ! "

In a moment the portmanteau was thrown with force on the planks,
and the foreigner protested.

"I understand you now. I have no cigars—I do not smoke. I
have no spirits—I am what you call a teatotaller. I have no lace—I
am a widower."

"Open it!" was once more the cry—this time with great
vehemence.

" But I am innocent of concealing anything ! Believe me, there is
nothing to declare ! I have some photographic plates—to open them
is ruin ! I prize my shirts—they are heirlooms if they are roughly
handled I can never wear them again." And the foreigner wrung
his hands in his despair.

"If you will not open it," replied the official, unmoved by his
eloquent appeal, "we shall detain your luggage."

"But this is barbarous—cruel," continued the foreigner, answer-
ing with excitement. "I have been to Constantinople with its
mosques, and the Turks have treated me with greater consideration.
I have seen the glories of Rome with its Forum, the splendours of
Petersburg with its fortress prison, the treasures of Madrid with its
art gallery—and everywhere—everywhere I have been treated with
greater kindness, greater charity than here ! And yet you say this
is the land of the brave and the free! "

" Wre say nothing of the sort," retorted the official; " we say,
open it! "

The foreigner, whose pallor was fearful to see, with his teeth
clenched and his eyes starting from his head, put the key into the
portmanteau lock, turned it, and the contents of the box was revealed
to view.

In a moment the officials were upon it—thrusting their inquisitnre
hands here, there, and everywhere. There was a salad of boots,
waistcoats, collars and brushes. At length they came to the photo-
graphic plates—thev were removed in a trice from their receptacle,
and held up to the light.

"Have you no hearts! " cried the foreigner, his face streaming
with tears. "In a moment you have undone the labour of years!
That plate—now destroyed for ever—when properly developed would
have revealed the smiling features of my wife's mother ! It took me
a quarter of a century to catch her with such an expression! For

in a tone of peremptory command.
"It is British; whvnot?"
But although the foreigner was baffled in his desire to use the
appropriate imprecation—he thought it !

MOTH-EATEN.

It is a stifling night; I sit I've thrown so many things at

With windows open wide ; him,

And the fragrance of the rose is And thrown them all so hard ;

blown There goes the sofa-cushion ; that

And also the musk outside, Missed him by half a yard.
There 's plenty of room for the My hot tears rain; my young-
moths out there heart breaks

In the cool and pleasant gloom ; To see him dodging thus ;

And yet these mad insectual beasts It is not right for him to be

Will swarm into my room. \ So coy—so devious.

iii,

As I sit by my duplex lamp,

And write, and write, and write;
They come and drown in the blue-
black ink,
Or fry themselves in the light.
They pop, and drop, and flop, and
hop,

Like catherine-wheels at play ;
And die in pain down the back of
my neck
In a most repulsive way.

There 's a brown moth on the
ceiling. He

Makes slow and bumpy rounds ;
Then stops and sucks the white-
wash off—

He must have eaten pounds.
He 's only waiting for his chance

To take me unaware, [make
And then the brute will drop, and

His death-bed in my hair.

WThy do they do it ? Why—ah !
why ?

The dews of night are damp,
But the place to dry one's self is
not

The chimney of a lamp.
And sultriness engenders thirst,
But the best, "the blue-black
ink,

Cannot be satisfactory
Regarded as a drink.

They are so very many, and

I am so very few—
They are so hard to hit, and so

Elusive to pursue—
That in the garden I will wait

Until the dawning light,
Until the moths all go by
day

"Where I wish they 'd go by
night.