THE LYONS CUBS

['Waiting is a good, and often a lucrative profession, which must be freed from the hostile prejudice entertained by the ordinary British family. On the Continent and in America there is no such prejudice, and University men often find the profession worth entering.'—Evening Paper.]

I said to George, my eldest son,
'Now that your college days are done,
'And high opinions you have won
'For wisdom and discretion,
'The time has come, as I suspect,
'When you should ponder and reflect
'Upon your future, and select
'A calling or profession.'
He answered brightly, 'Righto, pater!
'I'd like to be a British waiter!'
'Come, George,' I said, 'don't be absurd!
'I asked what calling you preferred.
'The Bar (although, I've always heard,
'The work is something frightful),
'The Church, the Services, the Bench,
'Diplomacy—nay, do not blench,
'You know how good you are at French—
'Is each of them delightful;
'I'll come for your decision later.'
Said George, 'I wish to be a waiter!
'Yes, at some café let me wait;
'For though I stroked my College eight,
'The year they won the Ladies' Plate,
'How mean a triumph that is,
'Compared with his who daily bears
'Whole stacks of Ladies' Plates downstairs,
'Or "bumps" the backs of diners' chairs,
'At Evans's or Gatti's!
'A "first" in "Greats" I deem no greater
'Than every exploit of the waiter.
'When single-handed he controls
'Some half-a-dozen finger-bowls,
'Than any Fellow of All Souls
'More talent he evinces,
'And shows why those who feel the charm
'Of balancing without alarm
'Six soup-plates upon either arm,
'At Kettner's, Scott's, or Prince's,
'To Judge's wig or Bishop's gaiter
'Prefer the napkin of the waiter!'

'THE CRIES OF LONDON'

No 'Milk below maid' now awakes
The city with her plaintive pipe;
No tuneful pedlar hawks 'Hot Cakes!'
No wench at dawn the silence breaks
With strains of 'Cherry Ripe!'
No cries of 'Mack'rel!' subtly blend
With 'Knives to grind!' or 'Chairs to mend!'
The fireman's shout no more we hear;
'Punch' and his satellites are dumb;
No more, when autumn days draw near,
Do songs of 'Lavender!' rise clear
Above the traffic's hum.
No 'China orange' now is sold;
The muffin's knell is mutely toll'd!
And yet our nerves are sorely tried—
Since Nature's lute has many a rift—
By 'cries' which Tube and 'bus provide:
'Fares please!' ''Old tight, miss!' 'Full inside!'
'No smoking in the lift!'
· · · ·
And oh! the gulf that separates
'Sweet lavender!' from 'Mind the gates!'

THE MODEL FARM

['If you want good milk, butter, cheese, beef, mutton, and bacon, keep the animals which supply these things amused—give them toys, in fact.'—The Daily Mirror.]

When a friend after breakfast some compliment pays
To the nourishment recently taken,
When he mentions the eggs with expressions of praise,
And says flattering things of the bacon,
I conduct him at once to my farm on the Downs
Which is managed so blithely and brightly
That the brows of my cows are unwrinkled by frowns
And my chickens are jocund and sprightly,
Where dogs in their kennels avoid being snappy,
And ev'ry dumb creature is healthy and happy.
Each sheep is diverted with suitable toys
That shall keep it obese and contented;
Ev'ry pig, whose delectable flesh one enjoys,
With a doll or a drum is presented;
For 'tis thus that I nurture those succulent lambs
That are always so sweet and so tender,
And secure those remarkably delicate hams
Which the sow is so loth to surrender;
Ev'ry egg (as supplied to our own Royal Fam'ly)
Is hatched by a hen who has patronised Hamley!
Each ox is devoted to 'Animal Grab,'
Ev'ry heifer plays 'tag' with a wether;
There's a swan who at 'Pool' is no end of a dab,
And the pigs play 'Backgammon' together.
'Pitch-and-toss' is the favourite game of the bull,
'Ducks-and-drakes' makes the goslings feel perky,
While the crossest old ram never 'loses his wool'
When he plays 'Rouge-et-noir' with the turkey;
Which is why all my produce—cheese, poultry or mutton—
Appeals to the taste of both gourmet and glutton!