Well, well, Mister Punch, I’m hout of it now, thanksbe.  And I ain’t sure as I could shape myself ’andy to the Slugger SULLIVAN and JEM SMITH kind o’ caper.  The “resources o’ science” is so remarkable different from what they wos in my days, and include so many new-fangled barnies as we worn’t hup to.  These ’ere pugilistic horchids, so to speak, wants deliket ’andling in the Ring, as well as hout on it, and a fair ’ammering from a ‘onest bunch o’ fives might spile the pooty look of ’em for their fust-clarss Saloons, Privet Boxes, and Swell Clubs.  But you can tell Mister JACKSON, Eskvire, an cetrer, an cetrer, an cetrer (put it all in, please, Sir, as I vant to be perlite), that in my day I’d a bin only too ’appy to fight ’im to a finish (which mighn’t ha’ bin in five minutes, either, hunless he wanted it so), for—­his Travelling Hexpenses!!!

    Yours to kommand,
    THE CHICKEN.

* * * * *

SINGULAR PLURALITY!

  O SHAW-LEFEVRE, was it but fatality,
    Or could it be because the subjects bore ’em,
  That, when you wished to argue on plurality. 
    About one Member came to form a quorum? 
  No doubt the others meant this to denote
  That when you speak you like “One Man, One Vote.”

* * * * *

FRIENDLY ADVICE TO MRS. HUMPHRY WARD, A PROPOS OF HER TROUBLE WITH HER ADVERSE CRITICS.—­Grieve no more!

* * * * *

[Illustration:  WHAT OUR ARTIST (THE ONE WHO PAINTS THE PRETTY “KISS-MAMMY” PICTURES) HAS TO PUT UP WITH.

Tommy. “IT’S A LITTLE GIRL, FAST ASLEEP, WITH HER DOLL IN HER ARMS!”

Jimmy. “YES; AND WHEN SHE WAKES UP, WON’T SHE BE FRIGHTENED AT THAT GREAT BIG BIRD!”]

* * * * *

ST. JOHN’S WOOD.

  These hapless homes of middle class,
    Can they escape annihilation
  When come, in place of trees and grass,
    A filthy goods-yard and a station?

  If such seclusion sheltered Peers,
    Their wealth and influence might save it;
  No speculator ever fears
    Artists or writers such as crave it;

  Or if it housed the WORKING MAN,
    Would Lords or Commons dare eject him? 
  Picture the clamour if you can! 
    His vote, his demagogues, protect him.

  But you, who only use your brains—­
    The people’s voice, the noble’s money,
  Not yours—­why save you from the trains? 
    For quiet, do you say?  How funny!

  Perhaps you think, because in May
    The talk is all of Art and beauty,
  The Commons also think that way;
    Not so, they have a higher duty.

  If only speculators shout,
    And millionnaires take up the story,
  They thrust all Art and Nature out,
    For Trade is England’s greatest glory.