BULLYING POOR "BULLY."
Says the Blackbird to the Bullfinch, "It is April; let us up!
We will breakfast on the plum-germs, on the pear-buds we will sup."
Says the Bullfinch to the Blackbird, "We'll devour them every bit,
And quite ruin the fruit-growers, with some aid from the Tom-tit."
Then these garden Machiavellis set to work and did not stop
Till the promise of September prematurely plumped each crop.
Ah! the early frost is ruthless, and the caterpillar's cruel,
But, to spifflicate the plum or give the gooseberry its gruel,
To confusticate the apple, or to scrumplicate the pear,
Discombobulate the cherry, make the grower tear his hair,
And in general play old gooseberry with the orchard and the garden,
Till the Autumn crop won't fetch the grumpy farmer "a brass farden,"
There is nothing half so ogreish as the Bullfinch and his chums,
Those imps of devastation—as regards our pears and plums.
Poor "Bully," sung by Cowper in his pretty plaintive verse,
It is thus thine ancient character they (let us hope) asperse.
"The gardener's chief enemy," so angry scribes declare,
And the cause why ribstone pippins and prime biggaroons are rare.
Little birds, my pretty "Bully," should all diet upon worms,
And grub on grubs, contented, not on fruit-buds and young germs
Vain your pretty coat, my "Bully," beady eyes, and pleasant pipe,
If you will not give our fruit-crops half a chance of getting ripe.
Let us hope that they traduce you, all this angry scribbling host
Of horticultural zealots who abuse you in the Post.
The Reverend F. O. Morris takes the field in your defence,
But they swear, though picturesquish, he's devoid of common-sense.
Punch inclineth to the Parson, and he doesn't quite believe
All the statements of the growers and the gardeners who grieve
Over "Bully's" depredations, for he knows that, as a rule,
The birds' foe is a fashionable fribble, or a fool.
From the damsels who despoil them for their bonnets or their cloaks,
To the farmer who exterminates the dickies, and then croaks
O'er the spread of caterpillars and such-like devouring vermin,
They are selfish and shortsighted. So he'll not in haste determine
The case against poor "Bully," or the Blackbird, or Tom-tit.
Though they put it very strongly, Punch would warn them—Wait a bit!
Sportive Captain Hawley Smart takes a somewhat new departure in Without Love or Licence. There is less racing than usual in this novel, and there is a very ingenious plot, which we are not going to spoil the pleasure of the reader by divulging. The secret is well kept, and one is put off the scent till well-nigh the final chapter. The whole story is bright and dashing, abounding with graphic sketches of such people as one meets every day. The author is in the best of spirits—he evidently has a licence for spirits—and keeps his audience thoroughly amused, from start to finish.
A STABLE UNDERSTANDING.
Curate (who had often explained to his Class that Heresy was "an obstinate choice"). "Now Boys, what should you say Heresy was?"
Several Boys. "'Obson's choice, Sir!"