THINGS TO BE BORNE IN MIND IN MAY.
That there is an ancient quaint rhyme, as follows—the old almanacks having a wrong version:—
"In April,
Grisi opes her bill;
In May,
To hear her you pay;
In June,
She's in full tune;
In July,
Her benefit is nigh;
In August,
Take a stall you must."
That the only Poles now found in May, about London, are the distressed patriots in the cheap eating-houses and copper hells in the neighbourhood of Leicester Square. The sport is not extinct, as little boys may still be seen dancing round the more eccentric specimens of the class. The only reason that these poles have not fallen down, like those in the country, is, that they are supposed to be very hard up.
That although the almanacks declare that perch, ruff, bream, gudgeon, flounders, dace, minnows, trout, and eels may be taken this month, this, to say the least of it, requires confirmation. We have tried often, but never took anything, except taking ourselves off after a fruitless time.
The country here is swarmin' with the most alarmin' kind o' varmin.
THE ZODIAC—JUNE.
THE LAND-CRAB.
[Extract from a forthcoming Novel, by the Author of "The Spy,"
"The Pilot," "The Red Rover," &c. &c. &c. &c.]
"It was too late. Their fearful enemy, that scourge so dreaded by the negro race of the Southern States, the terrible Land-Crab, was upon them. Copper Joe, never remarkable for heroism, lost the small remains of presence of mind which the encounter with the Comanches had left him, and, in attempting to fly, fell prostrate, injuring his abdomen severely. Andromache, with her youthful charge, after a vain effort to rouse her fat husband, Noah, to resistance, joined in the general rout. But the heroic Sambo stood his ground. His eyes glared, his white teeth shone from ear to ear, as, with right foot firmly planted in advance, he stood a sable Antinous, awaiting, with uplifted club, two onsets of the terrible enemy. It was a dreadful moment!"
THE QUEEN OF THE FÊTE.
BY ALFRED TENNYSON.
I.—The Day Before.
[To be read with liveliness.]
If you're waking, call me early, mother, fine, or wet, or bleak;
To-morrow is the happiest day of all the Ascot week;
It is the Chiswick fête, mother, of flowers and people gay,
And I'll be queen, if I may, mother, I'll be queen, if I may.
There's many a bright barége, they say, but none so bright as mine,
And whiter gloves, that have been cleaned, and smell of turpentine;
But none so nice as mine, I know, and so they all will say;
And I'll be queen, if I may, mother; I'll be queen, if I may.
I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,
If you do not shout at my bedside, and give me a good shake;
For I have got those gloves to trim with blonde and ribbons gay,
And I'm to be queen, if I may, mother; I'm to be queen, if I may.
As I came home to-day, mother, whom think you I should meet,
But Harry—looking at a cab, upset in Oxford-street;
He thought of when we met, to learn the Polka of Miss Rae—
But I'll be queen, if I may, mother; I'll be queen, if I may.
They say he wears moustachios, that my chosen he may be;
They say he's left off raking, mother—what is that to me?
I shall meet all the Fusiliers upon the Chiswick day;
And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen, if I may.
The night cabs come and go, mother, with panes of mended glass,
And all the things about us seem to clatter as they pass;
The roads are dry and dusty; it will be a fine, fine day,
And I'm to be queen, if I may, mother; I'm to be queen, if I may.
The weather-glass hung in the hall has turned to "fair" from "showers,"
The sea-weed crackles and feels dry, that's hanging 'midst the flowers,
Vauxhall, too, is not open, so 'twill be a fine, fine day;
And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen, if I may.
So call me, if you're waking; call me, mother, from my rest—
The "Middle Horticultural" is sure to be the best.
Of all the three this one will be the brightest, happiest day;
And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen, if I may.
II.—The Day After.
[Slow, and with sad expression.]
If you're waking, call me early; call me early, mother dear;
The soaking rain of yesterday has spoilt my dress, I fear;
I've caught a shocking cold, mamma, so make a cup for me,
Of what sly folks call, blackthorn, and facetious grocers, tea.
I started forth in floss and flowers to have a pleasant day,
When all at once down came the wet, and hurried all away;
And now there's not a flower but is washed out by the rain:
I wonder if the colours, mother, will come round again.
I have been wild and wayward, but I am not wayward now,
I think of my allowance, and I'm sure I don't know how
I shall make both ends meet. Papa will be so very wild;
He says already, mother, I'm his most expensive child.
Just say to Harry a kind word, and tell him not to fret;
Perhaps I was cross, but then he knows it was so very wet;
Had it been fine—I cannot tell—he might have had my arm;
But the bad weather ruined all, and spoilt my toilet's charm.
I'll wear the dress again, mother; I do not care a pin,—
Or, perhaps, 'twill do for Effie, but it must be taken in;
But do not let her see it yet—she's not so very green,
And will not take it until washed and ironed it has been.
So, if you're waking, call me, when the day begins to dawn;
I dread to look at my barége—it must be so forlorn;
We'll put it in the rough-dried box: it may come out next year;
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.