DEAR CHARLIE,—Spring's on us at last, and a proper old April we've 'ad,
Though the cold snap as copped us at Easter made 'oliday makers feel mad.
Rum cove that old Clerk o' the Weather; seems somehow to take a delight
In mucking Bank 'Oliday biz; seems as though it was out of sheer spite.
When we're fast with our nose to the grindstone, in orfice or fact'ry, or shop,
The sun bustiges forth a rare bat, till a feller feels fair on the 'op;
But when Easter or Whitsuntide's 'andy, and outings all round is in train,
It is forty to one on a blizzard, or regular buster of rain.
It's a orkud old universe, CHARLIE, most things go as crooked as Z.
Feelosophers may think it out, 'ARRY ain't got the 'eart, or the 'ead;