Arrested on a charge of severely wounding a neighbour with a shotgun, a prisoner at Birmingham pleaded that he had been led astray by a visit paid to a picture-house, where films of cowboy life were being exhibited. It was true that his parents were both doing time, and he had two uncles in an asylum, but he attributed his own downfall entirely to the pernicious influence of the cinema.
The Judge. I am glad you appreciate that fact.
Counsel for the defence here stated that the victim was now ascertained to have been a writer of picture-plays.
The Judge. Why didn't you say so before? That entirely alters the complexion of the case. I am not sure that the prisoner has not rendered a public service.
By direction of his Lordship the charge was subsequently amended to one of using firearms without a licence, and, a nominal fine having been imposed, the accused left the dock amid general congratulations.
SONNET TO A YOUNG ASS.
(On hearing it correctly imitate the hoot of a motor-horn.)
"Poor little foal of a despised race"— Thus in an earlier day a poet broke Into blank verse about thee, and awoke Compassion for thy patient, pleading face. But time thy ancient burden of disgrace Has ta'en away long since, and, though in joke Sometimes we may address thee as "the moke," No more we seek thy service to debase. For thou art changed, O much-enduring ass! No longer scorned but honoured in our day, When an entire and influential class— Our politicians—emulate thy bray; Whilst thou, in bland reciprocal salute, Hast tuned thy note to mock the motor's hoot.