8

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[January 3, 1874.


STORIES FOR SUNDAY EVENINGS.

NEW POLICE FOR PANTOMIMES.

The Officers of Law and Order, the Police, at this
time of the year, are wont, impersonated in all the
various pantomimes, to be upheld to the respect and
veneration of the British Public. On the stage they
receive what certain blockheads who suppose “ ovation ”
to have something to do with eggs, would call “ a nightly
ovation,” but for the circumstance that they are usually
pelted, not with eggs, but with vegetables. A voyage
on the river, on one of the late fine days, from London
Bridge to Waterloo in a penny steamer, attested the ex-
traordinary mildness of the season, and brought into
view a _ Thames Police Station. This suggested the
possibility of an improvement, in the way of addition
and novelty, on the customary pantomimic exhibition of
the Police. Occasion might be taken to introduce, in
some scene suitable to their agency, a number of aquatic
policemen distinguished by peculiarities indicative of
design and adaptation to an amphibious existence.
There is also a fluviatile officer of the Corporation of
London, who, if exhibited in connection with the Thames
Police, would, no doubt, afford amusement. Good fun
could unquestionably be got out of the Water Bailiff,
represented as organised after a fashion presumably
suitable to his official life. Both the Water Bailiff and
the Water Police present themselves to the eye of imagi-
nation as a sort of Mermen, having lower extremities
analogous to those of fishes or seals; thus exhibiting
affinities to the finny or the flappery tribes. Their
function may be conceived to be principally that of
swimming after loose fish. The idea of Water Babies
was pretty and graceful in a high degree, to which a
proportional amount of merriment would not fail to be
created by effectively dramatising Water Bobbies.

SONGS OUT OF SEASON.

Amongst the brakes and bushes,

A walkun Christmas Day,

The song and mizzel thrushes
I heerd both sing away.

The mildness of the season
It was as made ’em sing,

0 course that stands to reason.

They thought as how ’twas spring.

Mamma. “ So now, Maggie, you understand all the Story of Lot’s
Wife—don’t you?”

Maggie. “Yes—but I want to Know where all the Salt comes from
THAT isn't MADE OUT OF LADIES.”

Now let us tap our barrels,

So merry we will be;

While birds sings Christmas carols
On top o’many a tree. Hawfinch

Now, how to get her into a trot without hitting her with the whip
they’ve given me which would only make her irritable—or, with-
out touching her “ quarters,” which might make her kick, and then
Clumber & Co. would see me come off, or very nearly,—or without
paying “ t.chk” to her, which might startle her.

I give her her head. She makes use of it to stretch her neck, as if
she were stretching out her chin and pooh-poohing me, and she only
walks more leisurely.

I must touch her with the whip.

Now, then. I must stick my knees in firmly, feel that I’m like a
rock in the saddle, and then touch her—very gently.

I do ; and am prepared for rearing, kicking, shying—anything.

Not a bit. She takes no notice of it.

Becoming bolder, I do it again—harder.

No ; she doesn’t feel it.

Suppose I ... I tremble at the thought . . . considering I
haven’t ridden for three years—suppose I . . . hit her on the hind
quarters ?

I sit firmer than ever, brace myself for an effort, and, imagining
that the result will be to find myself, the next moment, flying among
the branches of the trees, I hit her—very gently, and, so, to speak,
slily.

No effect.

Oho ! Now I don’t mind increasing the force. Another. Another,
harder. Without any kick, or rearing, she simply throws up her
head, and suddenly, trots.

All my rock-like firmness is shaken out of my knees at the first
movement, and the stirrups seem to have let themselves out a good
half-inch. Nearly off sideways, but recover myself somehow.

From this she goes into a canter. I seem to roll a good deal in the
saddle, and I should say Clumber & Co.’s view of me would be

absurd. The saddle appears to slide forward, and there is nothing
of the horse in front of me. I can only describe the sensation by
saying that it seems to me, that, should the horse like to double itself
up from the front, it could slip its fore-legs through its own girths,
and get away from under its own saddle, leaving me on it on the
road, as easily as possible.

Happy Thought.—Sort of Davenport-Brother Horse. Good trick
for a circus.

We stop; and turn. I should like to walk slowly back. Horse
will trot now, and it’s down hill to the stable.

Happy Thought.—As I cannot stop him without jerking his head,
and perhaps spoiling his mouth (which Clumber won’t like if I
don’t buy him), I yield and endeavour to look as though I were still
trying him.

Really he,—I mean she,—she is trying me.

The trial is over, except that Trott gets up, and puts her through
her paces.

Verdict to be pronounced, in Clumber’s absence. Trott advises
me not. I agree with Trott. Sorry for Clumber. I don’t think I
care about riding as I used to. I shall go in for driving only.

The Perils of M.P.’s.

In his address at Liskeard, Mr. Horsman is reported to have said
that, ‘ ‘ he attributed the fact of his having had measles three times
to his having had to kiss so many babies on his canvass.” In the
opinion of the mothers, no doubt this kissing was a treat for the
affectionate Candidate. But as treating is now illegal, Mr. Horsman
will be able in future to imitate Hood’s “little O’Patrick:,” and
“ evade the bliss.”

i