THE POTATO ITSELF AGAIN.
We are glad to announce the recovery of the Potato. It has been too long absent from the festive board, and we are sure its reappearance at the dinner table will be hailed with all the warmth of a public friend, whose generous nature enables thousands to keep the pot boiling all the year round. How rejoiced the Baked Leg of Mutton will be to embrace its old companion once more! The two agree so well that they never should be separated. We can imagine the pans and kettles too, which have been growing rather rusty in its absence, will now brighten up again at its return, and bless "its dear eyes," à la T. P. Cooke, to see it looking so well. In Ireland its recovery will be quite a national feast. The "whole biling" of them will be, let us hope, in every man's mouth. In England, also, it will be a guest everywhere, from the palace to the potato-can. England is proud of its Champion; and justly—for no Champion strips so quickly for his rounds as the Potato. May it never leave us again! We could well spare a better vegetable.
HOW TO MAKE SURE TO WIN.
A TALE OF A FAT CATTLE SHOW.
The other day, in some country town,
A husbandman, who owned the name of Brown,
Had such a heifer as was never matched
In all the homesteads round;
So fine a head, such legs, and buttocks clean,
Small-boned, well-fleshed, its peer was never seen,
Juste milieu—fat and lean.
Farmers admired, and graziers praised galore.
Until the lucky owner vowed and swore,
"The lowest price for't wor a hundred pound."
But we all know that love can't get fat upon flowers,
And the heifer was found to fatten on praise.
Rent day would come round,
Yet no hundred pound
Appearing—our farmer "flared up" to a blaze,
And getting a hint the "stumpy" to raise,
Thought the very best way to get the best price
Was to dabble a bit—he was not very nice—
In a morsel of gambling, and offer his friends
A chance for the prize, which should certainly go
By way of a raffle—five guineas a throw.
——
Great was the clatter, the noise and array,
Of farmers at dinner the next market day.
The host of the Crown
In Diddleton town
Counted up on his fingers that forty sat down
To devour his hot roast and to drink his best ale,
Whilst they talked over crops, or reckoned the sale
Of their hay and their oats,
And the eels from their moats,
Of their lucerne, their tares,
Their apples, their pears,
Their boars and their sows,
Their calves and their cows;
But one and all joined, when the dinner had past,
In the cry "Now the raffle; who'll win her at last?"
But amidst all the noise one farmer was still,
Till he'd given his stomach a right hearty fill.
Then from deep 'neath his waistcoat a deeper voice stuttered,
"Cousin Stumps, thou'lt be in't, mind, and I'll share wi' you,
And Hodge, bo', you've paid, and I'm halves wi' you too.
And as for my meaning, I'se just dropped the tin,
And wi' your luck and mine I feel cock-sure to win.
I doant come from Yorkshire for nothing, you know—
It's just three to one that I win on the throw;
And my luck, which has stood up so mony a time,
Makes me sure in a hour the beast'll be mine."
——
"Clear off the dishes and cloth in a trice;
Bring in the grog and bring in the dice,
Two, three, four, and seven,
Eight, ten, and eleven."
The dice rattle down, and the numbers are told,
One after another the farmers are sold.
Till it's Farmer York's turn,
And his digits they burn
To handle the box and to give it the twist
That at old Crockford's College is taught to the wrist.
The ivories clatter—
All silence their chatter,
As they see with surprise and vexation enow,
How Dame Fortune will always well grease the fat sow.
The gamble is done—
Fat Yorkshire has won!
And the heifer, the glory of Diddleton town,
Is to trudge to his straw-yard from that of old Brown.
"Stop awhile", halloos Stumps, "half York's chance was mine,
And, safe enough, Hodge, t'other half must be thoine:
He went 'halves' in my chance, and he went shares in yours;
And he's won the prize heifer to make it all ours.
He don't come from Yorkshire for nothing, you see,
But makes 'cock sure to win'—for you and for me".
MORAL.
Now all good youths and maidens, pray,
Who this true story scan,
Remember what I'm going to say.
And act on't—if you can;
Still on life's chequered strange highway,
Whatever path you cross,
Don't be too greedy, or you may
Make sure to win—a loss.
WHAT A GENTLEMAN MAY DO, AND
WHAT HE MAY NOT DO.
He may carry a brace of partridges, but not a leg of mutton.
He may be seen in the omnibus-box at the Opera, but not on the box of an omnibus.
He may be seen in a stall inside a theatre, but not at a stall outside one.
He may dust another person's jacket, but mustn't brush his own.
He may kill a man in a duel, but he mustn't eat peas with his knife.
He may thrash a coalheaver, but he mustn't ask twice for soup.
He must pay his debts of honour, but he needn't trouble himself about his tradesmen's bills.
He may drive a stage-coach, but he mustn't take or carry coppers.
He may ride a horse as a jockey, but he mustn't exert himself in the least to get his living.
He must never forget what he owes to himself as a gentleman, but he need not mind what he owes as a gentleman to his tailor.
He may do anything, or anybody, in fact, within the range of a gentleman—go through the Insolvent Debtors Court, or turn billiard-marker; but he must never on any account carry a brown paper parcel, or appear in the streets without a pair of gloves.
THE GENEALOGICAL SHIRT.
