TRADE EMBELLISHMENTS.

“The Ching-Twangs Central China Tea Company’s selected growth of Early Green Leaf Spring Pickings;” i.e., “A damaged cargo and last year’s rotten sweepings, mingled with chipped broom, dried cabbage, and other equally suitable and inviting ingredients.”

AT LUNCHEON.

“No more, indeed, really;” i.e., “Had nothing to eat—­but more of that stuff?  No, thank you.”

ELECTIONEERING.

“The Leaders to whom the Nation owes its recent period of prosperity”:  i.e., “Gentlemen who have unavoidably remained in Office during the revival of Trade.”

“Having every personal respect for my opponent;” i.e., “I now proceed to blacken his political character.”

IN THE SMOKING-ROOM.

“You know I always hate long arguments;” i.e., “Don’t deprive me of my pet diversion.”

“No; I don’t exactly see what you mean;” i.e., “You don’t; but the admission on my part looks candid.”

“My dear fellow, ask anyone who really knows anything;” i.e. “You appear to live among a half-educated set of local faddists.”

* * * * *

’ARRY ON ’ARRISON AND THE GLORIOUS TWELFTH.

DEAR CHARLIE,—­No Parry for me, mate, not this season leastways—­wus
luck! 
At the shop I’m employed in at present, the hands has all bloomin’
well struck. 
It’s hupset all our ’olidays, CHARLIE, and as to my chance of a
rise
Wot do you think, old pal?  I’m fair flummoxed, and singing, Oh,
what a surprise!

These Strikes is becoming rare noosances, dashed if they ain’t,
dear old boy. 
They’re all over the shop, like Miss ZAEO, wot street-kids seems so
to enjoy. 
Mugs’ game!  They’ll soon find as the Marsters ain’t goin’ to be
worried and welched,
And when they rob coves of their ’olidays, ’ang it, they ought to
be squelched.

’Owsomever, I’m mucked, that’s a moral.  This doosid dead-set
against Wealth
Is a sign o’ the times as looks orkud, and bad for the national
’ealth. 
There ain’t nothink the nobs is fair nuts on but wot these ’ere
bellerers ban. 
Wy, they’re down upon Sport, now, a pelter.  Perposterous, ain’t it,
old man?

Bin a reading FRED ‘ARRISON’S kibosh along o’ “The Feast of
St. Grouse,”
On the “Glorious Twelfth,” as he calls it; wen swells is fair shut
of the ’Ouse,
Its Obstruction, and similar ’orrors, in course they hikes off to
the Moors. 
Small blame to ’em, CHARLIE, small blame to ’em, spite of the prigs
and the boors!