By the way, my view is to give the Penny Whistles to Crane or Greenaway. But Crane, I think, is likeliest; he is a fellow who, at least, always does his best.
Shall I ever have money enough to write a play?
O dire necessity!
A word in your ear: I don’t like trying to support myself. I hate the strain and the anxiety; and when unexpected expenses are foisted on me, I feel the world is playing with false dice.—Now I must Tush, adieu.
An Aching, Fevered, Penny-Journalist.
A lytle Jape of TUSHERIE.
By A. Tusher.
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The pleasant river gushes
Among the meadows green;
At home the author tushes;
For him it flows unseen.
The Birds among the Bŭshes
May wanton on the spray;
But vain for him who tushes
The brightness of the day!
The frog among the rushes
Sits singing in the blue.
By’r la’kin! but these tushes
Are wearisome to do!
The task entirely crushes
The spirit of the bard:
God pity him who tushes—
His task is very hard.
The filthy gutter slushes,
The clouds are full of rain,
But doomed is he who tushes
To tush and tush again.
At morn with his hair-brushes,
Still “tush” he says, and weeps;
At night again he tushes,
And tushes till he sleeps.
And when at length he pŭshes
Beyond the river dark—
’Las, to the man who tushes,
“Tush,” shall be God’s remark!
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To Sidney Colvin
[Chalet la Solitude, Hyères, May 1883.]