"ONE CROWDED HOUR OF GLORIOUS LIFE."
A bit of tobacco-ash in your eye, your reel jammed, one of your legs through a loop of your line and the biggest salmon you ever saw on the other end of it.
NEW RHYMES FOR OLD CHILDREN.
The Glow-worm.
The little glow-worm sits and glows
As brilliant as the stars,
But you are wrong if you suppose
That he will light cigars.
In fact, he seems to be exempt
From Nature's general plan;
He never makes the least attempt
To be of use to Man.
And if you think that it requires
A scientific brain
To understand his tiny fires
Then you are wrong again.
The meaning of his shininess
Is fairly clear to me;
It is intended to impress
The future Mrs. G.
No doubt you think it is his nose
Which gleams across the glen;
Well, it is not; the part that glows
Is on the abdomen.
And very likely that explains
Why all these millionaires
Buy such expensive shiny chains
To hang about on theirs.
* * * * *
The Editor who read these lines
Has quite a different tale;
He says it is the she that shines
To captivate the male.
He has a perfect right to doubt
The statements in this song,
But if he thinks I'll scratch them out
He's absolutely wrong.
A. P. H.
"Whatever will you do, grandpa, when you're too old for gardening?"
"I expect I'll start golf. But I hope I shan't live as long as that."
FOR OURSELVES ALONE.
Our hostess had taken us over to "Sheltered End," the pleasant country home of Mrs. Willoughby Brock, to play tennis. As however there was only one court and quite a number of young and middle-aged people were standing near it with racquets in their hands and an expression on their faces in which frustration and anticipation fought for supremacy, it followed that other beguilements had to be found. My own fate was to fall into the hands of Mrs. Brock, whose greatest delight on earth seems to be to have a stranger to whom she can display the beauties of her abode and enlarge upon the unusual qualities of her personality. She showed and told me all. We explored the estate from the dog-kennel to the loggia for sleeping out "under the stars;" from the pergola to the library; from the sundial to the telephone, "the only one for miles;" and as we walked between the purple and mauve Michaelmas daisies in her long herbaceous borders, with Red Admiral butterflies among the myriad little clean blossoms, she said how odd it was that some people have the gift of attracting friends and others not; and what a strange thing it is that where one person has to toil to make a circle others are automatically surrounded by nice creatures; and asked me if I had any views as to the reason, but did not pause for the reply.
It was a warm mellow day—almost the first of summer, according to one's senses, although nearly the last, according to the calendar—and Mrs. Brock was so happy to be in a monologue that I could enjoy the garden almost without interruption. For a two and a half years' existence it certainly was a triumph. Here and there a reddening apple shone. The hollyhocks must have been ten feet high.
"Ah! here comes the dear Vicar," said Mrs. Brock suddenly, and, rising up from a rose which I was inhaling (and I wish that people would grow roses, as they used to do years ago, nose-high), I saw a black figure approaching.
"He is such a charming man," Mrs. Brock continued, "and devoted to me."
"Good afternoon," said the Vicar. "How exquisite those delphiniums are!" he added after introductions were complete; "such a delicate blue! I should not have intruded had I known you had a party"—he waved his hand towards the single tennis-court, around which the wistful racquet-bearers were now (as it seemed) some thousands strong, "but it is always a pleasure"—he turned to me—"to be able to walk in this paradise on a fine day and appreciate its colour and its fragrance. I find Mrs. Brock so valuable a parochial counsellor too."
"I think," I said, not in the least unwilling to be tactful, "I will see what the rest of our party are doing."
"Oh, no," said the Vicar; "please don't let me drive you away. As a matter of fact, since there are so many here I won't stay myself. But I wonder," he addressed Mrs. Brock, "as I am here, if I might use your telephone for a moment?"
"Of course," said she.
"Thank you so much," he replied; "yes, I know where it is," and with a genial and courtly salutation he moved off in the direction of the house.
"Such a true neighbour!" said Mrs. Brock. "Ah! and here is another," she went on. And along the same path, where the Michaelmas daisies were thickest, I saw a massive woman in white, like a ship in full sail, bearing down upon us, defending her head from the gentle September sun with a red parasol. "This," Mrs. Brock hurriedly informed me, "is Lady Cranstone, who lives in the house with the green shutters at the end of the village. Such a dear person! She's always in and out. The widow of the famous scientist, you know."
I didn't know; but what does it matter?
By this time the dear person was within hailing distance, but she flew no signals of cordiality; her demeanour rather was austere and arrogant. Mrs. Brock hurried towards her to assist her to her moorings, and I was duly presented.
"I didn't intend to come in again to-day," said Lady Cranstone, whose features still successfully failed to give to the stranger any indication of the benignity that, it was suggested, irradiated her being.
"But you are always so welcome," said Mrs. Brock. "Lady Cranstone," she continued to me, "is kindness itself. She makes all the difference between loneliness and—and content."
Lady Cranstone picked a rose and pinned it in her monumental bosom. "I don't know that I had anything in particular to say," she remarked. "I chanced to be passing and I merely looked in; but since I am here perhaps you would allow me to use your telephone—"
Mrs. Brock beamed her delighted acquiescence and the frigate sailed on. "You've no idea," said Mrs. Brock, "what a friendly crowd there is in these parts. I don't know how it is, but this little place of mine, modest though it is, and unassuming and unclever as I am, is positively the very centre of the district. It's like a club-house. How strange life is! What curious byways there are in human sympathy!"
This being the kind of remark that is best replied to with an inarticulate murmur, I provided an inarticulate murmur; and I was about to make a further and more determined effort to get away when a maid-servant approached with a card.
Mrs. Brock took it and read the name with a little cry of satisfaction. "Lord Risborough," she said to me. "At last! How nice of him to call. They live at Risborough Park, you know. I always said they would never condescend to dignify 'Sheltered End' with their presence; but I somehow knew they would." She purred a little. And then, "Where is his lordship?" she asked; but the girl's reply was rendered unnecessary by the nobleman himself, who advanced briskly upon Mrs. Brock, hat in hand.
"I trust," he said, "that you will pardon the informality of this visit. Lady Risborough is so sorry not to have been able to call yet, but—but—Yes, I was wondering if you'd be so very kind as to do me a little favour? The fact is, our telephone is out of order—most annoying—and I wondered if you would let me use yours. I hear that you have one."
"I will take you to it," said Mrs. Brock.
"Most kind, most kind!" his lordship was muttering.
There was no difficulty in making my escape now.
E. V. L.
"I do hope you'll be able to come to the Mothers' Welfare meeting on Wednesday. We've persuaded a famous chef to come and give us a lecture on 'The Decay of Cookery.' It should be most helpful."
"Not to me, Mum. I allus gives mine to the pigs when it gets that far."
Mr. Punch desires to express his sincere regret for an injustice done, though without malice, to the Publishers (Messrs. Sweet and Maxwell) and the Editor of Williams' Real Property, in an article that appeared in the issue of August 18th, under the title, "Blewitt on Real Property." The new edition of Williams' Real Property contains a large amount of fresh material and represents considerable labour spent over the careful revision of the previous edition.
"At 1 a.m., uninterrupted rifle fire and bomb explosions were audible. It is reported that a French officer was then addressing the crowd." Times of Malaya.
Our old sergeant-major must look to his laurels.