Title:  Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 100, June 20, 1891

Author:  Various

Release Date:  September 10, 2004 [EBook #13422]

Language:  English

Character set encoding:  ASCII

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PUNCH,

Or the London charivari.

Vol. 100.

June 20, 1891.

ON THE RIVER.

[Illustration]

  A light canoe, a box of cigarettes,
          Sunshine and shade;
  A conscience free from love or money debts
          To man or maid;

  A book of verses, tender, quaint, or gay,
          Dobson or Lang;
  Trim yew-girt gardens, echoing the day
          When Herrick sang;

  A Thames-side Inn, a salad, and some fruit,
          Beaune or Hochheimer;—­
  Are simple joys, but admirably suit
          An idle rhymer.

* * * * *

A ’bus ’OSS’S Mems.

(KEPT DURING A RECENT SOCIAL CRISIS.)

Saturday, June 6, 11 P.M.—­Home after our last turn.  Fancy from several drinks had on the way, and the pace we had to put into that last mile and a half, that something’s up.  Turned into stall nice and comfortable, as usual.

Sunday.—­Something is up with a vengeance.  Hoorooh!  We’re on strike.  I don’t know the rights of it, nor don’t care, as long as I have my bit of straw to roll in, and a good feed twice a day.  I wonder, by the way, if the fellow who looks after my oats is “off.”  Past feeding time.  Feel uneasy about it.  Hang it all, I would rather work for my living, than be tied up here doing nothing without a feed!  Ha! here he is, thank goodness, at last.  However, better late than never.  Capital fun this strike.

Monday.—­Am sent out in a loyal omnibus.  Hooted at and frightened with brickbats.  Felt half inclined to shy.  Halloa! what’s this?  Hit on the ribs with a paving-stone.  Come, I won’t stand this.  Kick and back the ’bus on to the pavement.  All the windows smashed by Company’s men.  Passengers get out.  Somebody cuts the traces, and I allow myself to be led back to the stables.  Don’t care about this sort of fun.  However, feed all right.

Tuesday.—­Hear that the men want thirteen and sixpence a day and a seven hours’ turn.  Directors offer five and sixpence, and make the minimum seventeen hours.  Go it, my hearties!  Fight away!  Who cares?  You must feed me, that’s quite certain.  Still I don’t care about being cooped up here all day.  Nasty feeling of puffiness about the knees.  Hang the strike!