Punch (63.1872)

December 28, 1872.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

271

HAPPY THOUGHTS.

^ *y Dog-cabt at the Station to
receive us. Foggy drive.

We arrive at Me. Mic-
kleton's house, which is
out of the fog, and up a
hill. MlCKLETON (Engle-
moee's friend) beams on
us from the hall-door. It
quite warms me to see
him: he is so round and
jolly. He has gaiters on,
having apparently only
just this minute come in
from farming.

" Welcome to Walnut
House ! " cries our host,
heartily.

We descend; and the
introduction takes place
in Englemoee's own pe-
culiar style.

" Peoeessoe Mickle-
ton." He is only plain
Mister, of course. Then,
turning to me, " The
Colonel. He wants to
learn all the little fake-
ments of farming, and all round my garden in twenty minutes.
Eh, Professor ? "

Me. Mickleton replies, smiling, "It's rather late now, Engle-
moee,"

will he be to me ? Why am I down here ? Ah, I forgot; his line
is farming.

" Me. Mickleton is very much interested in farming, is he not i "
I inquire, rather nervously.

She smiles, and has a difficulty with the fluff again, before she
replies:

"Well, it quite depends upon the humour he's in. He has a
sort of sloppy, muddley place, that he calls his farm." Stitches.
" When he comes down early on Saturday, he walks about there in
thick boots and gaiters, and talks a great deal of nonsense, I
believe." Stitches. "On Sundays he always makes a fuss about
being obliged to go over the farm." Stitches. " But it's only an
excuse for not coming to church."

Here a sudden click and a whirr somewhere above my head startle
me, and a sharp cuckoo note is repeated six times. Just as I have
found out the situation of the clock, a little door over the face shuts
with a snap, and the Cuckoo, much to my disappointment, has
vanished.

It may be childish, but, on the instant, I feel that, henceforth,
my one object in this house is no longer to consult Mickleton on
farming, but to see that Cuckoo when he re-appears to tell us the
hour. It occurs to me, as quite a sporting sensation, that I should
almost like to take the time exactly from the clock-face, and be
underneath with a bow and arrow, or drawing-room pistol, to have
a shot at him when he next ventures out.

Happy Thought.—Adopt the idea for Hurlingham instead of real
live pigeons. All the amusement, double the fun, and none of the
cruelty.

"Chirpy Chap, eh?" Englemoee remarks, alluding to the
Cuckoo, shouldn't care about him in a bed-room. Should make him
touch the harp gently, my pretty Louise, or shut him up altogether.
Hallo, Professor, time for Sammy Soapsuds, eh ? "

" Yes," replies Mickleton, who has taken off his gaiters and been
putting himself to-rights ; " no dress, unless you prefer it. I shan't.

I interpose, politely, that I wouldn t on any account think of j >, he exclaims, as if something very brilliant had occurred to
trying to see the farm at this hour. Too late and too dark. hi « 1 ,ye t such a riddle for »

Don't know that," says Englemoee, thoughtfully. Mieb ! My name>8 Mister Give-it-up," replies Englemoee, easily,
have little Tommy Torchlight out with us, eh P _ New ldea^ Good j ask not being. in the least jnterested, what it is
picture for Illustrated.- Torchlight Visit of the Royal Party t< ■
Peofessor Mickleton's Farm.' Also article, ' All Among the
Pigs.' What time 's Mister Grub ? "

"Three-quarters of an hour from now," answers our host; and
forthwith invites us into the drawing-room.

Here we are introduced to Mes. Mickleton, who is sewing some-
thing or other of a fluffy character.

She expresses her pleasure at seeing us, and subsides, without
another word, into her knitting, or whatever it is.

" All Chickabiddies straight ? " inquires Englemoee, who has at
once established himself on the hearth-rug.

" The children ? " asks Mes. Mickleton, looking up for a second.
Englemoee nods.

" Quite well, thank you," she answers, resuming her work.

I don't see, as yet, my way towards interesting Mes. Mickleton
in a conversation.

Happy Thought.—Weather and children. Effect of climate on
youth.

" I suppose," I say, " you find this place agree with them wonder-
fully?"

I don't know the reason for my supposing anything of the kind,
as I've only been here ten minutes, and haven't seen anything at
all of the place itself. Still, it is the Country, and not London: at
least, this I imagine to he the basis for my observation.

Mes. Mickleton is obliged to desist in her work, I find, every
other second minute, in consequence of the fluffy stuff rubbing off
and flying to her nose, which she is forced to rub irritably.

" This place ? " she returns, after a second's friction of the point of
her nose with her right forefinger, and then speaking very slowly.
" This place ? No, indeed; I wonder we manage to keep alive here
at all. My husband's away all day. There's no society. As you
may imagine, it's very dull."

Between each of her sentences she does two or three stitches, and
then, just as I feel that she is expecting me to start some topic, or
agree with her, or, at all events, say something, she continues her
discourse. She has finished now, and I observe that of course if
there is no one here it must be very dull.

Happy Thought—Mrs. Robinson Cepsoe without a Fbidat.

" The garden," I say, " must be a great pleasure."

" Yes, if you understand it." Stitches. " I don't." Stitches. _

Happy Thought.—If a stitch in time saves nine, and if she is
always in time, what a heap of labour she must economise during
the year. (Think this out.)

She continues. " Mb. Mickleton doesn't understand it, though
he pretends he does." Stitches.

" Then the Professor is Mister Umbug," says Englemoee, laughing
it off. with a wink at me.

Ifoccurs to me that Mes. Mickleton must know more of her own
husband than Englemoee ; and, supposing she is right, of what use

Mickleton chuckling over it as if in anticipation of our roars of
laughter and delight when we hear it, says,

" Well, I made it myself the other day, and I asked Bagstee—
vou know," to Englemoee. " Sam Bagstee, our clergyman
here--"

Englemore nods, and by way of describing him to me, says,
" Mister White Choker, wall eyed. Little off his chump. Go on."
" He's all right now," Mickleton tells him.
" Glad of it," returns Englemoee ; " but what's Colonel Conun-
drum?"

Mickleton, who appears to have suddenly forgotten it, rubs his
head.

" Ah yes, of course. Well, it's this. Why"--here he breaks

off to implore me to tell if I've heard it before. I assure him I
haven't.

" I know it as far as you've gone at present," observes Englemoee,
"Goa-head!"

Mickleton goes a-head. " Why is a Duck," here he looks sus-
piciously at me, as much as to say now you have heard this before,
only out of politeness you won't tell me so—" Why is a Duck like a
Charlatan Doctor ? "

"The answer begins with 'Because,'" says Englemoee; "I'll
swear to that."

" Ah, you know it! " cries Mickleton. But we assure him that
we do not. Will he relieve our anxiety, and tell us ?
He will, with the greatest pleasure.

" The answer is," he says, " because they both quack. Good, eh ?
Isn't it ? You've never heard it before ? "
Happy Thought.—Never.

We all laugh. So heartily ; but Mickleton heartier than either
of us. He tells us again " that he made it himself.'^

We say, did he, really ? and, of course, laugh again.

We, still laughing, and repeating to ourselves, " Yes, Quack, very
good ! " take our chamber candlesticks, thinking we are going to
escape.

But-__

The Language of Bells.

" Then again, Whittington," said the Bells of Bow. Bells say
all sorts of things, mostly, to English ears, in English. But the
Christmas Chimes also talk French. In that language they ask for
turkey continually, saying, "Dindon!"

A Juvenile Ofeender.—A small boy in the Upper First Form
was heard to remark that the best Sanskrit grammarians were the
Parsees. Didn't he catch it ?