§ 199 Touching on London Weather
The other day Punch had a picture of an old gentleman about to climb into a taxi to escape a terrific snowstorm.
“Cabby,” he says, “it’s a miserable winter day, isn’t it?”
“Guvinor,” answers the frost-bitten taxi driver, “I pass you my word I’ve been out since early mornin’ and I ain’t seen a single butterfly.”
But, off-hand, I’d say the prize under this heading goes to Fred Greig, the New York art critic, for his telling of a personal experience.
At the age of twelve he was riding on the front seat of a Fleet Street bus. Although the month was July, rain had been coming down, practically without cessation, for more than a week. An East Indian, garbed all in white, went past, slopping along the sidewalk under an umbrella.
The driver aimed his whip at the dark stranger.
“Wot’s that?” he asked.
“That,” said Young Greig, who at school had been studying up on Oriental history and customs, “is a Parsee.”
“And wot’s a Parsee?”