OLD COLDS FOR NEW.
(A Fairy Tale of Anglo-Russian Origin.)
Once upon a time there was a feeble little Ailment called "Cold-in-the-head," which was treated in the most contemptuous fashion by its relations. The nearest of its kith and kin—Measles and Scarlatina—absolutely laughed when its name was mentioned, and scarcely recognised it as a connection. So Cold-in-the-head had rather a bad time of it generally.
One day the feeble little Ailment was wandering aimlessly about in search of a resting-place, when it came upon an enormous establishment thronged with thousands of working-men. When the employés are described as "working-men," it is not, however, quite accurate, for at that moment they were not working.
"Why are you idle?" sneezed out little Cold-in-the-head in a tone of compassion.
"Because," replied one of the employés, rather gruffly, "there is nothing to do. If you want further information, you had better inquire at that office."
And the man pointed to a door bearing the legend, "Editor's Room." The poor little Ailment entered the apartment, and found a Gentleman seated in front of a desk covered with papers. The Gentleman was staring before him, and the ink in his pen had dried up.
"What do you want?" asked the Gentleman. "And why don't you shut the door behind you?"
"I should cease to exist without draughts," explained the poor little Ailment, "and please don't speak roughly to me, as I want to help you."
"You help me!" exclaimed the Editor—for the Gentleman was an Editor. "How can you do that?"
"I think I can give you a subject."
"You are very welcome if you can do that," was the reply, "as in this dead season of the year ideas are as scarce as coals; nay scarcer. But surely, didn't you do something for the Press ages ago?"
"That was in the 'forties;' but I am quite different now."
Then the little Ailment related to the Editor stories of Russia, and the East, and all sorts of wonderful things.
"Well," murmured the Editor, after some consideration, "I think you may be useful, after all, if we are helped by the Doctors."
"What a fuss they are making about this new rival of ours!" said Measles, angrily.
"Too absurd!" commented Scarlatina, in a tone of annoyance.
Then there was a grand procession. First came Correspondents, then Interviewed Physicians, then the General Public. It was a sight that had never been seen before. In the midst of the excitement an Ailment appeared.
"Why, bless me!" cried Measles. "Only fancy!"
"Can I believe my eyes?" shouted Scarlatina. "Why, it's poor little Cold-in-the-head, that no one used to care a jot about six months ago!"
"Silence!" said the Ailment, with great dignity. "You must learn to treat me with the respect due to my exalted station. And please don't call me 'Cold-in-the-head,' for I am known as 'The Russian Influenza!'"
Then the Ailment turned towards Mr. Punch, who (as was his wont) was smiling, and bade him do homage.
"Not a bit of it," exclaimed the Sage of Fleet Street, raising a glass of Ammoniated Tincture of Quinine to his lips, and quaffing merrily a teaspoonful. "I defy you! You are puffed up with conceit, my poor little Illness, and when, in a few weeks' time, we have another sensation to talk and think about, you will sink back into your native obscurity."
And Mr. Punch (as the event will prove) was—as he always is—entirely right!
At the Porte St. Martin.—If there were ever any question as to the genius of Sara Bernhardt, she has now settled it by appearing as Jeanne d'Arc, and showing us what she is Maid of. By the way, as of course she wears golden or auburn hair, Jeanne d'Arc must appear as Jeanne Light. Irreverent scoffers may say this is historically correct, as from their point of view Joan was rather light-headed. Of course, Joan is coming over to London. Why not to Mr. Hare's Theatre, and finish the evening with a prime Garrick Stake.
