Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 100, June 20, 1891

Punch sympathises with Canadian sorrow For him known lovingly as "OLD TOMORROW." Hail to "the Chieftain!" He lies mute to-day, But Fame still speaks for him, and shall for aye. "To-morrow--and to-morrow!" SHAKSPEARE sighs. So runs the round of time! Man lives and dies. But death comes not with mere surcease of breath To such as him. "The road to dusty death" Not "all his yesterdays." have lighted. Nay! Canada's "OLD TO-MORROW" lives to-day In unforgetting hearts, and nothing fears The long to-morrow of the coming years.

Billsbury, Wednesday, May 28th.--Great doings here to-day. For weeks past all the Conservative Ladies of Billsbury have been hard at work, knitting, sewing, painting, embroidering, patching, quilting, crocheting, and Heaven knows what besides, for the Bazaar in aid of the Conservative Young Men's Club and Coffee-Room Sustentation Fund. You couldn't call at any house in Billsbury without being nearly smothered in heaps of fancy-work of every kind. When I was at the PENFOLDS' on Monday afternoon, the drawing-room was simply littered with bonnets and hats, none of them much larger than a crown piece, which Miss PENFOLD had been constructing. She tried several of them on, in order to get my opinion as to their merits. She looked very pretty in one of them, a cunning arrangement of forget-me-nots and tiny scraps of pink ribbon. Mother promised some time ago to open the Bazaar, though she assured me she had never done such a thing before, and added that I must be sure to see that the doors moved easily, as new doors were so apt to stick, and she didn't know what she should do if she had to struggle over the opening. I comforted her by telling her she would only have to say a few brief words on a platform, declaring the Bazaar open. For the last week I have had a letter from her by absolutely every post, sending draft speeches for my approval. After much consideration I selected one of these, which I returned to her. I heard from home that she was very busily occupied for some time in learning it by heart. When cook came for orders in the morning, she was forced to listen while Mother said over the speech to her. Cook was good enough to express a high opinion of its beauties.

Yesterday evening Mother arrived, with the usual enormous amount of luggage, including the inevitable Carlo. After dinner I heard her repeat the speech, which went off very well. This is it:--"Ladies and Gentlemen, I am so pleased to be here to-day, and to have the opportunity of helping the dear Conservative cause in Billsbury. I am sure you are all so anxious to buy as many of these lovely things as you can, and I therefore lose no time in declaring the Bazaar open." Simple, but efficient.

The opening to-day was fixed for 2:30, the Bazaar being held in the large room of the Assembly Rooms, which had been arranged to represent an Old English Tillage. At one o'clock Colonel and Mrs. CHORKLE, Alderman and Mrs. TOLLAND, and one or two others, lunched with us, and afterwards we all drove off together in a procession of carriages. I insisted on Carlo being left behind, locked up in Mother's bed-room, with a dish of bones to comfort him, and an old dress of Mother's to lie on. That old dress has been devoted to Carlo for the last two years, and no amount of persuasion will induce Carlo to take another instead. We tried him with a much better one a short time ago, but he was furious, tore it to ribbons and refused his food until his old disreputable dress had been restored to him.

The Bazaar proceedings began with a short prayer delivered by the Bishop of BRITISH GUIANA, an old Billsbury Grammar-School boy, who was appointed to the bishopric a month ago. Everybody is making a tremendous fuss about him here of course. As soon as the prayer was over, Colonel CHORKLE rose and made what he would call one of his "'appiest hefforts." The influence of lovely woman, Conservative principles, devotion to the Throne, the interests of the Conservative Young Men's Sustentation Fund, all mixed up together like a hasty pudding. Then came the moment for Mother. First, however, WILLIAMINA HENRIETTA SMITH CHORKLE had to be removed outside for causing a disturbance. Her father's speech so deeply affected this intelligent infant, who had come under the protection of her nurse, that she burst out into a loud yell and refused to be comforted. The Colonel's face was a study--a mixture of drum-head Courts-martial and Gatling guns. Mother got through with her little speech all right. As a matter of fact she read it straight off a sheet of paper, having finally decided that her memory was too treacherous. We both set to work and bought an incredible amount of things. After half an hour I found myself in possession of six bonnets made by Miss PENFOLD, three knitted waistcoats, four hand-painted screens, two tea-tables also hand-painted, a lady's work-basket, three fancy shawls, a set of glass studs and a double perambulator, which I won in a raffle. Mother got three dog-collars, a set of shaving materials (won in a raffle), two writing cases, five fans, two pictures by a local artist, four paper-knives, two carved cigar-boxes, a set of tea things, and five worked table-covers.

When we got back, we found that Carlo had nearly gnawed his way through the bed-room door, and was growling horribly at the boots and the chambermaid through the keyhole. Charming dog!

Professor GARNERS, in the New Review Tells us that "Apes can talk." That's nothing new; Reading much "Simian" literary rot, One only wishes that our "Apes" could not!

London Laundry-woman, to her Tub-mate, loquitur:--

They tell us the Tub is humanity's friend, and that Cleanliness is of closest kin To all things good. By the newest gospel 'tis held that Dirt is the friend of Sin. Well, I'm not so sure that the world's far wrong in that Worship of Washing that's all the rage; But we, its priestesses, sure might claim a cleanly life and a decent wage!

Listen, BET, from your comfortless seat on the turned-up pail,--if you've got the time; Isn't it queer that Society's cleansers must pass their lives amidst muck and grime? Spotless flannels no doubt are nice--and snowy linen is "swell" and sweet, But steaming reek is around our heads, and trickling foulness about our feet.

If the dainty ladies whose linen we lave, we laundress drudges, could look in here, Wouldn't their feet shrink back with sickness, and wouldn't their faces go pale with fear? White, well-ironed, all sheen and sweetness, that linen looks when it leaves our hands; But they little think of the sodden squalor that marks the den where the laundress stands.

Scrub, scrub, scrub, at the reeking tub, for eighteen hours at a stretch, perchance, Till our bowed backs ache, and our knuckles smart, and the lights through the steam like spectres dance; Ankle-deep in the watery sludge, where the tile is loose or the drainage blocked! Oh, I haven't a doubt that the dainty dames--if they only knew!--would be sorely shocked.

Typhoid! Terribly menacing word, the whisper of which would destroy our trade; But dirt, and damp, and defective drainage will raise that ghost on a world afraid; And at thirty years our strength is sapped by insidious siege of the stifling fume, Or what if we linger a little longer? Scant rays of comfort such life illume.

Grievances, BET? Well, I make no doubt that the world of idlers is sorely sick Of the moans and groans of the likes of us. When the whip, the needle, the spade, the pick, Are all on strike for a higher wage, 'tis a worry, of course, to the well-to-do, And a sleek Home-Sec, must "decline to pledge" support official to me and you.

Of course, of course! Who are we, my dear, to bother the big-wigs and stir their bile? Why, it's all along of our "discontent," and the Agitator's insidious guile. But Labour, BET, is agog just now to revise the old one-sided pacts, And even a Laundress may have an eye to the benefit of the Factory Acts.

Those bad, bad 'Busmen, BET my girl, claim shorter hours, and a longer pay; Just think of such for the Slaves of the Tub! Why should we women not have our say In the Park o' Sunday, like DAN the Docker, or TOM the Tailor, or WILL the "Whip"? The Tub and the Ironing-board appear to have got a chance--which they mustn't let slip:

An Object Lesson in Laundress Labour, may move the callous and shame the quiz. We dream of "Washing as well it might be"; we'll show them "Washing as now it is." We know it, BET, in the sodden wet and the choking fume; with the aching back, The long, long hours, and the typhoid taint, the inverted pail and the hurried snack.