The Big Farmer. "Weel—I'm weel in Pairts. But I'm ower Muckle to be weel all ower at ain time!"
We should think he was, indeed! Some remuneration, quotha? Does not the mere fact that he bears a name honoured and revered in every corner of the globe entitle him to a pension on the very highest scale known to the L. G. B.? Not, we need hardly say, an "old age" pension. Perpetual youth is the prerogative of all Punches. And they "have appointed his son as his successor." Well, of course! How can a Punch do anything but succeed? He would be a rum Punch if he didn't! Greetings to our distant kinsman of Kinsale!
One Man, One Topper!—In the Glasgow Herald somebody writes as follows:—
"It is surely time Mr. Duncan saw to his bus-drivers' hats! Such a miscellaneous collection of seedy hats, I think, could not be found elsewhere; they are a positive disgrace to the city."
The writer ought to have signed himself "Macbeth;" the "unguarded Duncan," whoever he may be, must be on his guard, or passengers will strike for better hats. All bus-drivers and conductors should wear silk hats, to typify the habitual softness of their address. Why not put them into livery at once? The company that did that would probably attract no end of custom. No revolution like it, since the abolition of the box-seat! Uniform charges and uniformed conductors should be the future rule of the road.
"Not Kilt, but Spacheless."—At Clonakilty Sessions the other day, the following evidence was given:—
"Patrick Feen was examined, and stated he resided at Dunnycove, parish of Ardfield.... Gave defendant's brother a blow of his open hand and knocked him down for fun, and out of friendship. (Laughter.)"
What a good-natured, open-handed friend Mr. Patrick Feen must be! John Hegarty, the person assaulted, corroborated the account, and added,—