A LETTER HOME.
(From our Youngest Contributor.)
My dear Mr. Punch,—This is about the last letter you will receive from me. I know it is, as all will soon be over! And I shall be glad of it. I can't last out until the Christmas holidays. Who could with such food? Why, it would make a dog cough!
It's no use learning anything. Why should I, when it will be all over almost directly? What's the good of Latin and Greek if you are going to chuck it almost at once? And mathematics, too! What use are they if the end is near? It's all very well to cram, but what's the good of it when you know you won't survive to eat the plum pudding?
There's no news. There's never any news. Smith Minor has got his cap for football, and Snooks Major is going up to Oxford instead of Cambridge. What does it matter when the beef is so tough that you might sole your boots with it? And as for the mutton! Well, all I can say is, that it isn't fit for human food, and the authorities should be told about it. As for me, I am passing away. No one will ever see me more. For all that, you might send me a hamper. Your affectionate friend,
Jacky.
STAR-GAZING.
["Astronomy has become a deservedly fashionable hobby with young ladies.">[