OUR FRIEND CABBY AGAIN Stingy Party:-"ARE YOU NOT SATISFIED, SIR?" Cabby:-"DON'T MAKE NO COMMENTS ON IT-YOU'VE DONE IT NOW, AND THERE'S A HEND OF IT-BUT RESPECT MY FEELIN's!" A CUR-SORRY COMMENT ON A PANIC. By K. V. K. AN' M. IF you please, MR. FUN, from the way that you spoke of the dogs in the late exhibition, The dog show, I mean, over Islington way, I guess you've a kind disposition, And will let every dog have his day, or his say, just to utter a word in defence, Or pour out his whine. (I'm in no mood to jest, my sorrow's so very intense.) They say that I'm bad, that I'm mad, and, egad, they all of them vow I must die; But I've just got one question to put to them first (it's dog-Latin), and that is, "Cur-why?" There's only one reason that they can allege, which must, as you very well know, be a Mere groundless panic, because it is proved that the dog-days don't bring hydrophobia. And as for the cases you read in the papers you ought to have far too much wit To put faith in what they say. You do not believe there's been anyone bitten, a bit. But even if there were, that can't surely be grounds for destroying the whole canine race. You cannot mean that, or, at least, if you do, I'll just put a similar case: Because one Teuton tailor committed a murder, you would not instanter determine To hang every tailor, who's German, for fear of crime there his breast is a germ in. Don't kill us, then, please, because life's always sweet, though a street-dog's existence is bitter. [We print portions of the following poem as a curious illustration of how much can be made of very little. To print the work in its entirety would be to swamp the number, as it runs to two hundred and thirty-three verses. On the whole, it is not good; and having morally cut it up, we find ourselves compelled to physically cut it down. Our contributor explains to us that he lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. We can assure him that he won't be allowed to lisp in any more of ours, for fear they should not go.-ED.] DEAR EDITOR-TEDITOR,-You say you want four columns immediately. Here are twelve. Take them. May they make you happier "I ask an ap Is it zo Is it conch Is it ge- Is it nos- Or archæ ology ?" than they have made me! You will observe that some of the lines (And so on, through all the ologies—eighty-four more lines.) are not quite filled up, just finish these for me, and oblige, Yours everlastingly, THE STUDENT. DESIDERIUS ERASMUS. This in accents loud I shouted A SELF-TAUGHT SCHOLAR.-Your "Latin without a Master," speaks for itself. It is quite evident there's no mastery in it. For instance, your translation of the Ode to the Joint-Stock Companies, "pursy Co's, oh die! Poor apparatus," is so close as to be almost suffocating. A-GUSH-TA. Your "Ode to the Moon" is beautiful, but a little faulty in the paltry matter of rhyme. "As you were" does not rhyme with "lunar." Try "ATTWOOD and SPOONER," it may be a little difficult to bring in, but it is perfect as a rhyme. A GARDENER.-The society is so very discursive that, as you say (Here, in twenty-seven verses, follows a list of subjects of which our con- (though we don't think you intended a joke), it is the Aught-icultural tributor was not thinking.) For of Mexico I'm weary, Parliament's a thing of nought, Trains to me are always drearyTrains of passengers or thought. Society. J. W.-Your complaint is a just one. The South Kensington authorities ought not to have closed the miniature collection against photography. Your photograph ought to be admitted because it is in a minute-you're taken. (Here, in nineteen verses, he explains his reasons for not thinking of the BAXTER's information about fashionable movements. subjects enumerated in the preceding twenty-seven.) Well, as I was sitting idly I perceived a silent student At a window, quite at home, As I watched the youth pursuing (Here, in thirty-five verses, he speculates on the youth's possible prospects, and suggests a variety of names, all or any of which may be his. He then, rather artistically, changes his metre, and bursts into the following impassioned appeal) :— THOMAS BAXTER (FOOTMAN).-We must gratefully decline exclusive Such tittle tattle is not only undignified, but even ridiculous, unless more than strix-ly accurate, and we have no desire to go a 'owler from mere love of contradiction. Cheering Election Intelligence. FUN is always glad to applaud and encourage virtue whenever found -even in the higher classes of society. THE following letter has just been sent to all the tenants under HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON :- Strathfieldsaye, June 1, 1865,-Dear Sir, I think it right to explain clearly to you my feelings regarding the exercise of your vote; it is a trust imposed on you for the advantage of the country, and the responsibility of the proper exercise of it rests on yourself alone. It is committed to you-not to me; and I beg you distinctly to understand that no one has my authority for stating that I wish to bias you in favour of any candidate.-I am, dear sir, yours truly, WELLINGTON." Bravo! May his Grace the Duke find many imitators. To encourage others to follow his example we hereby announce that his Grace will receive every week a copy of FUN gratis, in token of our approval of his conduct. NAME! NAME: THE people of Naus have voted against the introduction of gas into the town. What Naas-ty people! Said a soldier, on the shady side of forty, to a lady, Who was buckling on his burgonet, his breastplate, and his brand, "By my halidom, I'd rather, as a husband and a father, Stop at home than go crusading in that blessed Holy Land." "Yes, I know as well as you, dear, it's the proper thing to do, dear; And I'm not afraid of fighting (as I think I said before); But it's not without emotion that I contemplate the notion, Of a trip across the channel in a British man-of-war. "No, it's not at all a question of alarm, but indigestion; Not the lances of the Paynims, but the passage in the gale, When the awful cry of Steward' from the windward and the leeward, From a hundred lips arises, when a hundred lips are pale!" "Yes, I know you're very sickly," said his lady, rather quickly; So her lord and master started, just a trifle chicken-hearted, A Cannibal Conundrum. THE following was picked up in the Strand the other day between Exeter Hall and Bell's Life office. It had evidently been dropped from some one's pocket; but whether it belonged to a missionary attending the meetings at the one locality, or a betting man looking out for the odds at the other, we know not. Nor does it matter-if the missionary's we will hope it belonged to a good man: if the other's, it clearly pertained to a better. We found it, and hasten to lay it before our readers: "Why is a cannibal exulting after dining off a missionary' wife, like the finest race horse of the present year? "Answer.-Because he's Glad-he-ate-her!" The original manuscript, with some real Strand mud still adhering to it, as a proof of the truth of our statement as to where we found the above, may be seen at our office. We make this announcement because we should be sorry to have it thought that the conundrum was our own. THE RIGHT PLACE FOR A CHOIR.-The Cathedral of Rheims. OUR OWN ESOP. FABLE 1.-THE FOX AND THE GRAPES. AN artless fox went out for a morning walk, and, casting up his fine eyes quite promiscuous-like, beheld a bunch of grapes hanging just above his innocent little head. He imprudently ate several, but was very soon attacked by a most violent fit of indisposition. "I now begin to perceive," said he, "that I have done something rash. However, I will try to console myself by supposing that those grapes were not at all sour." MORAL.-Never touch early fruit unless you are quite positive that you have a lively imagination. FABLE 2.-THE DOG AND THE SHADOW. A DOG was crossing a wooden bridge, with a slightly underdone mutton-chop in his mouth, when he beheld his reflection considerably magnified in the stream beneath. A common dog might have dropped the solid meat with a vague notion of getting the shadow into his possession; but this was not a common dog, or I should never have taken the trouble to write a fable about him. "Ah," said he, "this is evidently an optical illusion, which will be explained some day by PROFESSOR PEPPER at the Royal Polytechnic Institution. In the meantime, it is clear that although yonder chop is larger than mine, yonder dog is also larger, and consequently stronger, than I am; therefore, it would be imprudent in me to stand the chances of a fight." And he went over and calmly ate his chop upon the other side. MORAL.-Cultivate the Polytechnic, and never strike a person who is bigger than yourself. FABLE 3.-THE FOX AND THE CROW. A CROW, perched on an arbutus cactiflora, held a Dutch cheese in his beak. To him enter a fox, unsuspecting as all foxes are wont to be. "Would you like a piece of cheese?" inquired the crow. "Thank you, not at present," replied the fox. "The fact is, I have been reading a very pretty pamphlet by a party called BANTING, Who doesn't think much of Dutch cheese. Besides, to tell you the truth, I haven't dined yet." "Well, don't go about saying that I never asked you," returned the crow, whose sensitive nature was rather wounded by rejection. MORAL.-There are some people in the world who prefer Stilton cheese to Dutch. To such people this fable is not addressed, because it would only be thrown away upon them. HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK III. ODE IX. "DONEC GRATUS," &c. HE.-I told you I loved you so dearly, My life was all couleur de rose; But now you're behaving so queerly, That what I shall do, goodness knows. SHE.-Ah, yes, then you cared for me only, Out riding, at picnic, or ball; But now if I'm ever so lonely You never come near me at all. HE.-I met little LETTY at Brighton, She sings like an angel, I swear; She enters the room seems to lighten, And, oh, how she does her back hair! SHE.-Ah, well! we at Scarb'ro were staying, Where Cousin FRED gave me this fan, He quotes from Toи MOORE-I was saying I thought him a duck of a man! HE.-Good-bye, dear; you know who my pet is; I meet you to-night-don't be hard; Your singing's far better than LETTY'S; You'll keep me a place on your card. SHE.-Oh, yes! you can't guess what I suffer, You knew that my heart's ever true; My cousin's what men call a "duffer; My darling! there's no one like you Nothing like Leather. A FIRM of cloth manufacturers is advertising a new tweed as being "a beautiful cuir brown." Those who don't know the difference between tweed(le), dit in French, and English tweed, 'll dumbfoundered be by this rum colour. |