Punch (80.1881)

38 PUNCH, OE THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [Januaby 29, 1881.

UNREASONABLE!

Our Dairyman [in dismay). " 'Ere's the Pump froze up now ! And yet if Milk rises
a 'A'penny a Quart, Bri'sh Public grumbles ! "

WHISTLING FOR CABS.

It is quite pitiful to see and hear the Club-porters whistling for cabs, which either come
not or pass them by with contempt. "Whistle—and I won't Come to You, my Lad'," is
the burden of the Cabmen's song,—the only burden he carries gratis. It is not that the
roads are much worse after a heavy snow-storm than in the height of the muddy season,
but snow is the one tiling that thoroughly upsets official rules and regulations, Scotland
Yard, the licensing system, and the beautiful hard and fast price of sixpence a-mile. The
timid cabmen strike, and go home to bed; the more courageous come out, and ask a pound
an hour, and get it. Government trading is bad, but Government interference with trade is
ten times worse. Perhaps the Seldom-at-Home Secretary will make a note of this.

No Choke!—Are the Fogs to be relegated to a Select Committee ? What do King Coal,
lhe Fog Fiend, Baron Bronchitis, & Co., care about Select Committees? The subject
ought not to be choked off in this manner.

THE TALE OF THE TELEGRAPH
CLERK.

With aching eyes and fingers worn

By private craze and public crash,
I sit and slave from night to morn,

And do my turn at " dot " and "dash."
I see that some are free to roam,

To rest a little while, and laugh;
But this small office is my home,

Where I've to Avork the Telegraph.

The messages come pouring in—
From Alice "love:" a growl from
Dick ;

I know what horse is bound to win;

But still this everlasting click !
"At home, my dear, I cannot dine,"

Wires craftily some better half;
Would his reversion cordd be mine,

But I've to work the Telegraph.

My fingers spin the ball that whirls

The world's roulette from dawn to dark;
I plead for broken-hearted girls,

And catch the unsuspecting clerk ;
I 'm messenger of birth and death,

The voice of fate, the jester's chaff ;
'Tis mine—the universal breath—

Whilst I command the Telegraph !

Within my breast securely lock'd,

I hold the secrets of the town;
Life hangs on me when lines are block'd,

Without me commerce tumbles down.
The great world stops when work is done :

There's rest for managers and staff,
But for the operator—none ;

He still must work the Telegraph.

In summer time I scent the breeze
That comes from mountain and from

sea,

I seem to hear the waving trees

Conveyed by electricity;
I'' touch'' the towns where maidens skate,

And long, these winter days, to laugh ;
Why moan ? when I manipulate

The Departmental Telegraph!

Oli, fellow-workers! we but ask—]

Not as a favour, but a right—
Some slight concession in our task,

A pause by day, some rest at night.
We beg for bread, and not a stone—

The whole of prospect, not the half.
Come ! earn the blessing, not the groan,

Of men who work the Telegraph! "

Wire-drawn Salaries.

The giggling girls, precocious boys, and
half-starved clerks, who form the Telegra-
phic Staff of that money-grubbing depart-
ment of Government—the Post Office, have
petitioned for a slight increase of pay, and
have been officially snubbed for their pains.
They have petitioned for eight years, and
for eightyears they have received no answer.
The Manchester clerks were too wise to
petition. They struck, and their demands
were at once attended to.

The Straight Tip.

In a clever and interesting book called
Roads and Horses, by'' Free Lance," it be-
ing taken as provedthat shoeingis a mistake,
"tipping " the hoof is suggested as a com-
promise. This is a practical application of

Money makes the mare to go. To effect
this, hitherto, most people have had to " tip "
the coachman. The farrier's answer to the
query " Shall the horse have shoes or not ? "
must be, " Whichever you shoes, my little
dear, you tips and you takes your choice."