"HISTORY (NEARLY) REPEATS ITSELF."
(A Peep into the Future.)
There was a general strike. The playing fields were deserted, and trade was at a standstill. Not a cricket-ball or a foot-ball had been made for months, and the lawn-tennis industry was paralyzed. The papers of the day urged the Government to intervene. "After all, it was only a matter of figures. Surely a compromise might be reached. If players would only meet payers, all would be well." So a Cabinet Council was held, and the most popular Member of the Ministry was selected as arbitrator. The name was well-received by both sides, and all seemed en train for a satisfactory settlement.
"We must have a proper salary," said a representative of the foot-ball profession: "if we don't, we shall have to give it up, and take to soldiering, doctoring, brief-accepting, and the rest of it."
There was a murmur of disapproval at this suggestion. Was foot-ball to perish because its professors could not get a "living wage"? No, a thousand times no!
Then the Minister suggested that he had better hear the complaints of the men, the women, and the children. So the cricketers, the golfers, the polo-players, and the lovers of lawn-tennis spoke at length.
"And what may you want young lady?" asked the arbitrator, with a smile.
"I must be paid for taking my doll for a walk," replied a small girl of six or seven. "I have to keep the toy perambulator in repair, and when Rose falls on her nose, I have to get her face replaced. How am I to bear these expenses if I receive nothing? It is impossible, unreasonable!"
"And I, too," cried a schoolboy. "How can I trundle my hoop or play at marbles if I am not allowed something for my time?"
And there were other complaints. Everyone wanted a wage, and the cries for salaries waxed louder and louder.
Then the Minister asked for a few minutes' grace, and began writing. After he had finished his despatch, he put it in an envelope, and requested someone to read it when he had taken his departure. Then he went away.
"Dear me!" said the person to whom the despatch had been entrusted. "This is highly unsatisfactory. I find the arbitrator has resigned without making an award, and has left the matter in the hands of Lord Rosebery."
Then there was a cry of sorrow. For it was known that as Lord Rosebery had had quite enough of conflicts between capital and labour, he would certainly refuse to be dragged into another quarrel.
So the war went on between players and payers, and "Merrie England" became a byword of reproach in the comity of nations.
Popular Idea of the Costume of a Member of the Bar on "Grand Day."
MATURE CHARMS.
Maiden slim and fair, with the golden hair,
So eager to snare with the knowing glance
Of your eyes so bright, and to waltz all night
With that step so light in the mazy dance,
Years ago, I swear, we once met somewhere;
We danced—you take care to forget that ball—
And my arm embraced that wasp's whalebone waist,
So cruelly laced, so absurdly small!
But then I declare you had nut-brown hair,
The colour's still there just down at the roots;
You are "fancy free," full of girlish glee,
But you're forty-three I would bet my boots.
Your beauty is rare, but I am aware
That face you prepare, that vile waist you buy,
Which corsets to civilised women give,
And hairdressers live so that you may dye.
SO POLITE!!
Slim nervous Gent (pulling up at a regular facer). "Hold hard, you Brute! 'Ladies first!'"
A BALLAD.
I wish I could write romantic rot,
Like the beautiful songs they sing
At Ballad Concerts; why should I not
Attempt such a simple thing?
This metre's just right. Here goes!—The moon
Shone sad o'er the silvered waves,
The nightingale trilled 'neath that night of June,
Where the river the primrose laves.
(That's good, though hazy the sense may seem,
No primrose would bloom at the time;
The river "laves" it, not it the stream;
"Moon" and "June" makes a clumsy rhyme.)
Upon the terrace a maiden fair
Was gazing the waters o'er,
And dreaming of vows of love she ne'er
Would hear, as in days of yore.
("Days of yore," that's fine.) And her soft, sad eyes
Looked up at the starry night,
She kissed a fair ruby ring, with sighs,
Which shone on her fingers white.
(You put the words as it suits you best;
The adjective need not be
Before the noun.) On her heaving breast
A red, red rose you could see.
(That is if you had been there.) She wept;
To-night must her lover go.
The rose was awake, though the pimpernel slept.
(Bagged from Tennyson, don't you know?)
The silent stream whispered scarce a sign,
Ere it swept past the willows grey.
(The sense is vague, though the sound is fine;
What it means even I can't say.)
Alas! alas! red, red rose, bright ring!
Red rose, cherished ring, alas!
(Such bosh sounds beautiful when you sing.)
A hush lay over the grass.
(I'm hanged if I know what a "hush" may be.
It's something pathetic, sublime.)
The nightingale warbled upon the tree.
O rose-scented summertime!
He came, and pressed to his manly heart
The maid 'neath the pale moonbeams
(Don't mind if accents are wrong); they part!
In (excellent rhyme) her dreams
The joy of that passionate farewell kiss
To the silent tomb she bore.
(I could easily write you a mile of this,
But you probably want no more.)
"La Fin du Sea-Aigle(!!)."—The Standard informs us that—
"A specimen of the white-tailed, or sea eagle, has just been shot at Bude Haven, Cornwall. The bird weighed nearly eight pounds, and the extended wings measure between seven and eight feet from tip to tip."
Now, "next please," and let us have the "Very last of the Sea Serpent!"