THE NEW WOMAN IN SOMERSET.
(Told by the Old Woman at the Farm.)
'Twere market day, and John were late,
I thart o' steppin' out up t' hill,
When there in t' road, 'gin barton gate,
I see a body, sim faint and ill.
'Twere one o' these yer cyclist folk,
Us ha'n't sin much on 'em Quantock way,
But Robert to Lunnon, he've often spoke
O' women in breeks—more shame, I say.
Well, there! 'twere one on 'em, sure as sure;
Look fair a-doneded—her must ha' bin—
So, breeks or no, when her knock on t' door,
"Wark in," I says to her. "Plase to wark in."
Her'd a summat to eat and drink, and then
Her do tark so fast as a chatter-pie
'Bout 't rights o' women, and tyrant men,
I tellee, her fair a-flummoxed I.
Such a power o' words, sim Latin and Greek,
As you couldn't tell up not one in ten,
And her said as us art for to vote and speak,
And be in t' Parliament, same as men.
And a tarr'ble plenty o' nonsense more—
The things some folk do get putt'n about
Afore John come home, us opened t' door.
And "Wark out, wull ee?" I says, "Wark out!"
What's in a Name?—The Hampshire County Council is dubious whether it should surrender the title of "County of Southampton" to the great borough, which Sir Charles Scotter has so greatly benefited. Why not call the county Cockhamptonshire, a cognomen which would en-hants its supremacy over the district with a similar, but northern appellation? Those sensible county magnates the Messrs. Portal are always open to a practical suggestion.