DOI Heft:
August 31, 1889
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17688#0102
August 31, 1889.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
97
My Yicar’s away !
OUR CURATES.
I preach Three Times on Sunday, and Boss the
entire Show I ”
WHAT MR. PUNCH'S MOON SAW.
TWENTY-FIRST EVENING-.
“I know a country Tillage,” said the Moon; “it lies in a pleasant hollow,
clustering round the tall grey church tower. For several years now have 1
looked down on the humble thatched roofs, and peeped through many an open
door, into the neat little room, with the Dutch clock ticking busily on the wall,
and the best china and painted tea-trays
set out on the dresser. I know all the
inhabitants, too, and often watch them
digging in their gardens, or sitting in
their porches of an evening after their
hard day’s labour in the fields. They
are kind, simple folk; and though they
are poor enough, some of them, there is
nothing ugly or sordid in their poverty,
and I do not think they are unhappy or
discontented, like too many of their brethren
in the great cities and towns. The chil-
dren, too, have sturdy legs and rosy faces,
and shout merrily when they are let out of
school. Just now, however, I notice faces
amongst them that are pale and legs that
are very far from sturdy, but these belong
to children who have lived all their little
lives in the smoky slums of this great
London of yours. Some philanthropic
people have had the idea of sending them
away, for a fortnight or so every summer, into the fresh sweet air and the novel
sights and sounds of the country. The cottagers are always glad to have them,
and the half-crown a week which is paid for each child’s hoard and lodging
represents an amount of kindness which no money could ever purchase. The
hearts of these good country people are touched by the wasted limbs and white
faces of their little London guests, and they are never easy till they see them
looking healthy and ruddy, like their own children, as is generally the case
before they go back. But these small boarders often earn a welcome on their
own aceount, for they are sharper than the little rustics, and have more to say
for themselves. * You would he amused if you could look
in sometimes through the latticed window, as I do, and
see some little London urchin, ensconced in the only
armchair, enlightening the family on the ways of the
Town, while the flaxen-headed children stand by, open-
mouthed or eyed, and the cottager’s wife exclaims, ‘ Lar,
now ! ’ ‘ Marcy me ! ’ ‘ Well, to think o’ that ! ’ and the
cottager says nothing, but smokes his pipe on the settle,
marvelling at the wisdom and knowledge of his youthful
guest, and receiving enough new ideas to last him for a
twelvemonth to come.
“ Unfortunately they are not all like that. Not very
long ago I saw a painful little scene at the garden-gate
of one of the cottages. The Yicar’s Wife was seated in
her pony-carriage, while a stout, pleasant-faced woman
was denouncing the conduct of the small boy who had
been billeted upon her. They could do nothing with
him. The first night he came, he had refused to sleep in
the room upstairs, because such a smell came through
the window—and it was only honeysuckle, too! Then
he had stoned the hens, and beaten the pig, and pinched
her little girl till she cried, and behaved generally like
the turbulent little ruffian he was. There he stood,
listening sullenly to the charges against him, with an
impenitent scowl on his hardened, low-browed coun-
tenance—he was certainly not an engaging-looking hoy.
So the Yicar’s Wife told him that he did not deserve to
stay where he was, and that he should he sent hack to
London the very next day. He made no answer, hut I
knew what he was thinking. He was thinking that he
had thrown stones and ill-treated the animals because
he felt had and didn’t know of anything else to do ; that
he had hurt the little country girl because she had made
him feel how bad he was. That the little girl hated
him, but he didn’t care. That when he got home next
day, his father would beat him, and he didn’t care for
that either. That everybody was a beast, and he wished
he was dead. The cottager’s little daughter was standing
shyly by, her round freckled face very flushed under
her sunhonnet; her mother had made her show the
bruises on her arm where the naughty hoy had pinched
her, and she felt sorry and ashamed, particularly when
the Yicar’s Wife said that he would have to he sent
away. The lady was just taking up her reins, having
settled the train by which he was to go, and her mother
was just getting ready to curtsey, when the little, girl
could stand it no longer. She rushed down to the carriage.
“‘If you please, Ma’am,’ she began, ‘oh, if. you
please ’-then she burst out crying. ‘ What is it,
little girl F ’ asked the lady ; ‘ has this wicked boy done
any other mischief ? Don’t be afraid—tell me all about
it.’ ‘ No, no, it heant that, Ma’am, please—he didn’t
’urt me—leastways, he didn’t goa fur to ’urt me, an’
he didn’t knaw as it was crule fur to ’it the peg ... he’s
main sorry now, and he woant niver thraw stoans at the
’ens noa moar, he woan’t. Doan’t ’ee send ’im away
just this time, Ma’am! Mother’ll let ’im stay, an’ he ’ll
be good and beyave proper if he’s let to stay, woan’t ’ee,
Jimmy, now ? tell the lady ! ’ And here she threw her
small bruised arms round the boy’s neck, and cried on
his sulky shoulder. I saw his narrow eyes blink and
his face twitch at this unexpected intercession, and then
he drew his ragged sleeve across his face and turned
away. 4 Tain’t o’ no use ! ’ he growled. ‘ I’m a had
’un, I am. A right down had’un ... I’d better go hack
’ome, I ’ad! ’ ‘ No, no,’ sobbed the child ; ‘ stay, Jimmy,
stay and be good. I ’ll show you how ! ’
“ So the end of it was, he was given one more chance,
and, as the pony-carriage drove away, I saw him kiss
the little girl roughly and rather sheepishly under her
sunhonnet, and break away into the back yard. I don’t
think he will do her or the animals any harm again,
somehow, however long he is allowed to stay,” said the
Moon. __
De Omnibus Rebus. —Mr. Punch, Sir, wy is that
stupendious eddifis of inginearin enterprise the Eiffel
Tower, which has just bin struck by a wiolent flash of
lightnin without being urt—cos wy, its made of ion—
like yours truly ? Cos being a chap on the footboard at
the back of a ’bus, I ope I, too, may call myself,
A Good Conductor.
Barricades in London.
the Strand and Piccadilly.
-For further particulars see
vol, xcvn.
K
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
97
My Yicar’s away !
OUR CURATES.
I preach Three Times on Sunday, and Boss the
entire Show I ”
WHAT MR. PUNCH'S MOON SAW.
TWENTY-FIRST EVENING-.
“I know a country Tillage,” said the Moon; “it lies in a pleasant hollow,
clustering round the tall grey church tower. For several years now have 1
looked down on the humble thatched roofs, and peeped through many an open
door, into the neat little room, with the Dutch clock ticking busily on the wall,
and the best china and painted tea-trays
set out on the dresser. I know all the
inhabitants, too, and often watch them
digging in their gardens, or sitting in
their porches of an evening after their
hard day’s labour in the fields. They
are kind, simple folk; and though they
are poor enough, some of them, there is
nothing ugly or sordid in their poverty,
and I do not think they are unhappy or
discontented, like too many of their brethren
in the great cities and towns. The chil-
dren, too, have sturdy legs and rosy faces,
and shout merrily when they are let out of
school. Just now, however, I notice faces
amongst them that are pale and legs that
are very far from sturdy, but these belong
to children who have lived all their little
lives in the smoky slums of this great
London of yours. Some philanthropic
people have had the idea of sending them
away, for a fortnight or so every summer, into the fresh sweet air and the novel
sights and sounds of the country. The cottagers are always glad to have them,
and the half-crown a week which is paid for each child’s hoard and lodging
represents an amount of kindness which no money could ever purchase. The
hearts of these good country people are touched by the wasted limbs and white
faces of their little London guests, and they are never easy till they see them
looking healthy and ruddy, like their own children, as is generally the case
before they go back. But these small boarders often earn a welcome on their
own aceount, for they are sharper than the little rustics, and have more to say
for themselves. * You would he amused if you could look
in sometimes through the latticed window, as I do, and
see some little London urchin, ensconced in the only
armchair, enlightening the family on the ways of the
Town, while the flaxen-headed children stand by, open-
mouthed or eyed, and the cottager’s wife exclaims, ‘ Lar,
now ! ’ ‘ Marcy me ! ’ ‘ Well, to think o’ that ! ’ and the
cottager says nothing, but smokes his pipe on the settle,
marvelling at the wisdom and knowledge of his youthful
guest, and receiving enough new ideas to last him for a
twelvemonth to come.
“ Unfortunately they are not all like that. Not very
long ago I saw a painful little scene at the garden-gate
of one of the cottages. The Yicar’s Wife was seated in
her pony-carriage, while a stout, pleasant-faced woman
was denouncing the conduct of the small boy who had
been billeted upon her. They could do nothing with
him. The first night he came, he had refused to sleep in
the room upstairs, because such a smell came through
the window—and it was only honeysuckle, too! Then
he had stoned the hens, and beaten the pig, and pinched
her little girl till she cried, and behaved generally like
the turbulent little ruffian he was. There he stood,
listening sullenly to the charges against him, with an
impenitent scowl on his hardened, low-browed coun-
tenance—he was certainly not an engaging-looking hoy.
So the Yicar’s Wife told him that he did not deserve to
stay where he was, and that he should he sent hack to
London the very next day. He made no answer, hut I
knew what he was thinking. He was thinking that he
had thrown stones and ill-treated the animals because
he felt had and didn’t know of anything else to do ; that
he had hurt the little country girl because she had made
him feel how bad he was. That the little girl hated
him, but he didn’t care. That when he got home next
day, his father would beat him, and he didn’t care for
that either. That everybody was a beast, and he wished
he was dead. The cottager’s little daughter was standing
shyly by, her round freckled face very flushed under
her sunhonnet; her mother had made her show the
bruises on her arm where the naughty hoy had pinched
her, and she felt sorry and ashamed, particularly when
the Yicar’s Wife said that he would have to he sent
away. The lady was just taking up her reins, having
settled the train by which he was to go, and her mother
was just getting ready to curtsey, when the little, girl
could stand it no longer. She rushed down to the carriage.
“‘If you please, Ma’am,’ she began, ‘oh, if. you
please ’-then she burst out crying. ‘ What is it,
little girl F ’ asked the lady ; ‘ has this wicked boy done
any other mischief ? Don’t be afraid—tell me all about
it.’ ‘ No, no, it heant that, Ma’am, please—he didn’t
’urt me—leastways, he didn’t goa fur to ’urt me, an’
he didn’t knaw as it was crule fur to ’it the peg ... he’s
main sorry now, and he woant niver thraw stoans at the
’ens noa moar, he woan’t. Doan’t ’ee send ’im away
just this time, Ma’am! Mother’ll let ’im stay, an’ he ’ll
be good and beyave proper if he’s let to stay, woan’t ’ee,
Jimmy, now ? tell the lady ! ’ And here she threw her
small bruised arms round the boy’s neck, and cried on
his sulky shoulder. I saw his narrow eyes blink and
his face twitch at this unexpected intercession, and then
he drew his ragged sleeve across his face and turned
away. 4 Tain’t o’ no use ! ’ he growled. ‘ I’m a had
’un, I am. A right down had’un ... I’d better go hack
’ome, I ’ad! ’ ‘ No, no,’ sobbed the child ; ‘ stay, Jimmy,
stay and be good. I ’ll show you how ! ’
“ So the end of it was, he was given one more chance,
and, as the pony-carriage drove away, I saw him kiss
the little girl roughly and rather sheepishly under her
sunhonnet, and break away into the back yard. I don’t
think he will do her or the animals any harm again,
somehow, however long he is allowed to stay,” said the
Moon. __
De Omnibus Rebus. —Mr. Punch, Sir, wy is that
stupendious eddifis of inginearin enterprise the Eiffel
Tower, which has just bin struck by a wiolent flash of
lightnin without being urt—cos wy, its made of ion—
like yours truly ? Cos being a chap on the footboard at
the back of a ’bus, I ope I, too, may call myself,
A Good Conductor.
Barricades in London.
the Strand and Piccadilly.
-For further particulars see
vol, xcvn.
K