Third ‘Arry. You’d ha’ copped ’im if yer’d bin a bit quicker.

Jim (annoyed).  They keep on movin’ so, they don’t give a bloke no chornce!

Second ’Arry. ’Ave a go at that old owl.

    [Alluding to a tin representation of that fowl which remains
    stationary among the painted rushes.

Third ’Arry. No—­see if you can’t git that stuffed bear.  He’s on’y a yard or two away!

An Impatient ’Arry (at doorway).  ’Ere, come on!  Ain’t you shot enough?  Shake a leg, can’t yer, JIM?

Second ‘Arry. He’s got to kill one o’ them rabbits fust.  Or pot a tin lion, JIM? You ain’t afraid!

Jim.  No; I’m goin’ to git that owl.  He’s quiet any way.

    [Fires.  The owl falls prostrate.

Second ’Arry.  Got ’im!  Owl’s orf!  JIM, old man, you must stand drinks round after this!

    [Exeunt ’Arries, to celebrate their victory in a befitting
    fashion, as Scene closes in.

* * * * *

THE LAY OF THE LOUD SALVATIONIST.

A SONG FOR THE SEAT OF JUDGMENT.  AIR—­“THE BRITISH GRENADIER.”

[Illustration]

  Some talk of WAGNER chorus, of war’s wild rataplan,
  Or of the well thumped tom-tom of happy Hindustan;
  But sweetest of all shindy to which man’s ear may list,
  Is the tow-row, tow-row, tow-row of the loud Salvationist!

  The swart-skinned Nubian’s reed-pipe hath an ear-piercing note,
  And you may hear mad music from ’ARRY in a boat;
  But safest of all sounds to give the tympanum a twist,
  Is the tow-row, tow-row, tow-row of the loud Salvationist!

  Who prates of calm Nirvana, of quietism’s joys? 
  What are they to “Row’s” Gospel, the Paradise of Noise? 
  Quakerian calm is obsolete, but oh! who can resist
  The tow-row, tow-row, tow-row of the loud Salvationist?

  They muster in their thousands on market-place, or green,
  With blatant brazen brayings, and thump of tambourine. 
  Are you at prayer, asleep or sick?  What odds?  You’re forced to list
  To the tow-row, tow-row, tow-row of the loud Salvationist!

  They throng with thunderous tramplings the city thoroughfare,
  In rural nooks their shoutings are on the summer air;
  Though sea-side peace be pleasant, its spell may not resist
  The tow-row, tow-row, tow-row of the loud Salvationist!

  O Holy Noise!  O latest and greatest of man’s gods! 
  With common-sense at issue, with comfort at fierce odds;
  Divine, of course, you must be,—­thrice lucky to enlist
  The tow-row, tow-row, tow-row of the loud Salvationist!

  The Corybantic clangor was cheerful, in its way,
  But Hallelujah Lasses the cymbals can outbray. 
  O raucous throat, O leathern lung, O big belabouring fist! 
  O tow-row, tow-row, tow-row of the loud Salvationist!