Punch: Punch (100.1891)

240 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [May 16, 1891.

SPECIMENS EEOM ME. PUNCH'S SCAMP-ALBUM.
No. IV.—The Husband's Old School-fellow.

We will suppose that you are a young wife, and that your husband
is absent in the City during the greater part of the day. One after-
noon a card is brought in bearing the inscription:—•

Captain Caulkee.
United Service Club. The Hermitage, Coventry.

which document is followed closely by a tall, well-groomed, rather
portly and florid stranger, with a military moustache, who greets
you with the utmost cordiality. "1
happened to find myself in this neigh-
bourhood," he says, "and I could not
—I really could not—resist this oppor-
tunity. My name, I venture to think
a sufficient introduction ? "

It is nothing of the sort—
but you are too shy and too
polite to > admit it, so you
merely murmur some inco-
herency. He detects you
at once. " Ah ! " he cries,
in good-tempered reproach;
" I see, I've been too san-
guine. Now confess, my dear lady, you
haven't a notion who I am ! "

Thus brought to bay, you ownthat
you have no clue to your visitor's iden-
tity—as yet. " Well—well," he says,
tolerantly, "Time is a terrible sponge-
though I had hoped that, even after all
these years, your dear husband might
have occasionally mentioned the name of
his old school- chum! I've never for-
gotten him—no, all through the years
I've been in India I've never forgotten
dear old Waiter ! "

" But my husband's name is William!"
you say here.

'1 He was always Walter to me,
Madam, or rather—Watty. He was so 4S=^*^
like a favourite young brother of mine,

who died young. That drew us together from the first. Did dear
old Watty never tell you how he saved my life once ? . . . No ?
So like him!—he wouldn't. But he did, though; yes, by Gad,
jumped into fifteen foot of water after me, and kept me up when I
was going under for the last time. Pardon me, but 1 see a photograph

upon your writing-table—surely, unless I am wrong,_ that-"

"That is a portrait of my only brother," you will say; "he is
out in India with his regiment—perhaps you may have met him
there?"

"Thought I knew the face—met him at Simla, several times,

says the Captain; "wonderful how small the world is! But have
you one of old Watty's photos ? I should so like to see whether
the dear old chap has altered . . . Ah, I should hardly have known
him-and yet, yes, the same cheery, jolly look, I can trace the
boy there, I can see my old Watty again ! No friends, my dear
Mrs. Gosling, like those we make in early youth! And he never
mentions me now ? Ah! well, he has a very charming excuse for
forgetting the past—though I shall tell him when I see him that I
do think he might have remembered his old school-friend a little
better than he seems to have done. Your servant informed me that
he was seldom at home quite so early as this, but I thought if I
could not see him, I would at least give myself the pleasure of
making the acquaintance of his wife, so I just ventured to come in
for five minutes."

" William will be so disappointed to have missed you." you say,
eagerly; " can't you wait and let me give you some tea ? He may
be back in half an hour."

"In half an hour? Well, 'pon my word, you tempt me very
much. I shouldn't like to go away without seeing him, but I must
send away my cab first—no, it's not outside, left it at the corner of
the road, as I wasn't certain of the number—I s'pose I've got
enough silver to—no, I haven't, by Jove ! Could you oblige me by
change for a—well, really, this is very awkward. I've positively
come out with only a shilling—thought it was a sovereign ! I shall
have to ask dear old Watty to accommodate me—I've lent him many
a half-crown in the old days. Absurd predicament to be in, and if
I keep my cabman waiting, I don't know what he mayn't charge
me. I took him three hours ago. I tell you what, my dear Mrs.
Gosling ; If you'll advance me a sovereign, I could run out and
settle with the fellow, and then it won't signify how long I wait for
Watty. Can you ? Too good of you, I'm sure! Watty will
chaff me when he hears I've been borrowing like this, ha, ha!"
Here your ear, sharpened by affection, catches a well-known turn
of the latch-key at your front-door. " Why, how fortunate ! " you
exclaim, " here is my husband already, Captain Cauleee. He will
come in as soon as he has changed his shoes."

"Capital!" cries the Captain. "Look here, Mrs. Gosling,—I've
just thought of a little joke. I want to see if he'll know me. Now
you go and talk to him a little, and—presently, you know—say
there's a man in the drawing-room, who's come to wind the clocks,
and then I '11 come in to where you are, and make believe to wind
the clock there—do you see ? I'd bet anvthing he won't spot me at
first I "

Ton are young enough to be delighted at the idea of such a pretty
little comedy, and you trip away to the study, and archly keep dear
William in conversation until the Captain is ready to make his
appearance. At last, a little impatiently, you give the cue by men-
tioning that there is a clock-winder in the drawing-room. William
is amusingly suspicious, and insists on seeing the man. As the
scene will be just as funny in the drawing-room, you accompany him
thither—but there is no gallant Captain there affecting to wind your
charming little Sevres clock (a wedding present) -he has gone, and—
alas! without leaving a timepiece for anybody else to wind. And
William is most disagreeable and unpleasant about it!

NOTES FROM A NURSERY-GARDEN.

{By an Awfully Clever Child.)

Dear Mr. Punch,—I am a Poetess. I am told
that the Age is old, and that Poetry is ever. My
age iB ten, and my poetry is certainly not over. My
nurse (one of those horrid critics) has ventured to
suggest that I am not original. I leave you to
judge. Yours impatiently, Enfant Terrible.

N.W.

Alack ! up Northern Primrose Hill

{Sing, oh, Jack! sing, ah, Gill!)
They climbed, and deemed it Helicon,
Those childish bards, Gillette and John,
Their pails with Hippocrene to fill.
{Sing, oh, Jack! sing, ah, Gill!)

Adown that Western Hill, alack !

{Sing, ah, Gill ! sing, oh, Jack !)
Or e'er they gained the Muses' well,
Jack kicked his bucket frail and fell,

And Gill was brought upon her back.

{Sing, ah, Gill! sing, oh, Jack!)

TO A SCENTY PEDE.

How doth yonder miniature featness,
Though wingless, with gossamer wit,

Foregather mellifluent sweetness,
While Fates unrelenting permit—

Wise heir of bright hours, completeness
Of blossoms that flicker and flit.

ON A JAPANESE SCREEN.

In Teddo, where long lilies weep,
Bo' Peep

The shepherdess hath lost her sheep.

She recks not where the sheep have strayed,

Poor maid,
Beneath the Boodha-Temple's shade.

Her solace is the Minstrel's : I'd
Let slide

My flocks of verse without a guide.

So will they best return without

A doubt—
Or tale that mortal can make out.

MISS MUFFET.
So sweet!

Child-Innocence, with upward-curling feet

On buffet-seat,
Resolving (as we all resolve) t© eat.

So sad !

The ravening Spider from his eyrie mad

Swoops, boldly bad,
And scares (as spiders scare) the Pure and
Glad.

ON A KLEPTOMANIAC.

An, Violin Cremonian!
Ah, Pussy-cat of Ispahan!
Moo-cow that dost outmoon the moon!

Yes, dainty poodle, laugh away,
And mock the pranks poor mortals play
Who spoon the dish and dish the spoon !

TO THE QUEEN OF MAYS.
Give me an elfin, frolic May,

No Queen with hoarse cadenzas,
Who pipes a frozen roundelay

Of spiteful influenzas.

My May shall air no voices crude,
No chained and chilly dances—

With wordless harmonies endued
And pirouetting fancies.

She '11 draw us round no Northern Poles

With crowns of mimic roses,
That mock our sad sepulchral souls

And counterfeit our noses.
But white as hawthorn blossom, free

As air to shed her pleasures,
My mute, melodious May shall be

The soul of wayward measures.
To put it plainly, while the ban

Of Spring on us and gales is,
I '11 bask and smile and worship Jeanne

Within the Prince of Wales's.

consebvative comment on a recent

Election {afcer Mr. Middltwick).— " Humph!
Inferior Dosset! "

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