Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, August 6, 1892

TOAST--We beg to propose the health of the liberal-minded purchaser of the Althorp Library, who intends to keep the books in a building open to all readers, adapting the toastmaster's phrase for the occasion, and giving, "Our Noble Shelves!"

A ye who bless the wedded state With tributes born of generous blindness, Bemourn the fate that well may wait Your gifted kindness.

My CHLOE's ultra-modern mind Transforms your Dresden's grace and Chelsea's, The toys for special use designed, To something else's.

For CHLOE reads each weekly print, Where Art's resource is blent with Scandal's, Where decorative females hint Their cure for Vandals.

Your large, expensive Wedgwood bowls, She bids her "Lor!"-exclaiming waitress To cram with large, expensive coals, The pretty traitress!

On daintiest overmantel's ledge She sets enshrined your prosy platter; Your salt-cellars she stocks with veg- etable matter.

And when the Summer comes (if hail For once not hails the sunny swallows) Our fenders hold your statues pale Of chipped Apollos.

With out-of-fashion toilet sets, Their sprigs of ringstands, bits of boxes, She picturesques her cabinet's Quaint heterodoxies.

My blue tobacco-jar she'll hoard For party-nights, and on the basket Whereon my manuscripts are stored Will throne--a casket!

"Ingenious" CHLOE, sure, opines Is Genius' proper derivation; "Appropriate" with her defines Appropriation.

Poor STREPHON, fond, bewildered wight! He doubts, amazed by changes showy, If CHLOE's own be STREPHON quite, Or STREPHON's, CHLOE!

The Vultures, dear JOE? Nay, it needs no apology To say you are out in your new ornithology. The Vultures are carrion-birds, be it said; And the Man and the Cause you detest are not dead! Much as his decease was desired, he's alive, And the Cause is no carcase. So, JOE, you must strive To get nearer the truth. Shall we help you? All fowls Are not Vultures. For instance, dear JOE, there are Owls, (Like JESSE) and Ravens much given to croaking, (in Ulster they're noisy, though some think they're joking), Then Parrots are plentiful everywhere, JOE, (They keep on repeating your chatter, you know, As they did in the days when you railed about ransom; But Parrots are never wise birds, JOE, though handsome); Then Geese, Jays, and Daws; yet they're birds of a feather, And they, my dear JOSEPH, are gathered together, To hiss, squeal and peck at the Party they'd foil, But who're like to secure--as you phrase it--"the spoil." Yes, these be the birds most en évidence now; And by Jingo, my JOE, they are raising a row. They're full of cacophonous fuss, and loud spite; And they don't take their licking as well as they might. In fact, they're a rather contemptible crew; And--well, of which species, dear JOSEPH, are you?

"_June and July have passed away,_ Like a tide. Doors are open, windows wide. Why in stuffy London stay?" Sing the Sirens (slyboots they!) With a Tennysonian twang, To the Tourist, (Not the poorest You may bet your bottom dollar, Which those Sirens aim to "collar." Demoiselles, excuse the slang!)

"All within is dark as night, In Town's windows is no light, And no caller at your door, Swell or beggar, chum or bore! Close the door, the shutters close, Or thro' windows folks will see, The nakedness and vacancy, Of the dark deserted house!"

"Come away! no more of mirth Is here, or merry-making sound. The house is shut, and o'er the earth Man roves upon the Regular Round Come away! Life, Love, Trade, Thought, Here no longer dwell; Shopkeepers censorious Sigh, "What swells would buy, they've bought. They are off! No more we'll sell. Would they could have stayed with us!"

"Come away!" So Sirens sing-- Sly, seducious, and skittish-- To the Tourist, wealthy, British, When Society's on the wing, Or should be, for "Foreign Parts." British BULL mistrusts their arts. "Come away!" (One doth say), "_Our Emperor is quiet to-day!_" Cries another, "Come, my brother, "_Avalanches down again!_" Sings a third, with beckoning fingers, "_Come, come, where the Cholera lingers_." While a fourth--is it her fun?-- With the wide blue eyes of Hope (As though advertising Soap), Shouts, with glee, "Come with me, Unto Norroway, o'er the foam, Far from home, Wait there to see Our (invisible) Midnight Sun!"

BULL, the tweed-clad British Tourist, Muses--"Home seems the securest, On the whole. Why widely ramble, Tramp, and climb, and spend, and gamble, Face infection, dulness, danger, All the woe that waits "the Stranger," And the Tourist (rich) environs, At the call of foreign Sirens, When home charmers, bright-eyed, active, Offer "metal more attractive?" Four such darlings who'll discover O'er the seas? Shall I, their lover, Still discard them for yon minxes, Harpies with the eyes of "lynxes"? ALBION dear, and CAMBRIA mild, CALEDONIA stern and wild, As your poet said, but pretty; HIBEBNIA mavourneen, jetty- Hair'd, and azure-eyed, I greet ye! Darlings, I am charmed to meet ye. Why go wandering o'er the foam, Like a latter-day ULYSSES, When warm charms and wooing-kisses Of such Sirens Four wait me at home?"

They sat it out upon the stairs, Those dear old stairs! Ah me; how many A time they've cost, all unawares, A pretty penny!

Why they were fools enough to go To sit on stairs, and miss the fun, Quite baffles me; but still, you know, It has been done.

The lights were low--lights often are-- I deem the fact though worth the noting, And strains of music from afar Came softly floating.

So whilst she pondered what Mamma Would think, the band commenced to play The epidemical "_Ta-ra-_ ra-boom-de-ay!"

He gazed into her eyes (of blue), Sighed once as if it hurt him badly, Then told her how 'twas but too true He loved her madly.

With highly creditable skill He turned the well-worn platitude-- His own unworthiness until You really could

Not but admire each word, each look. His speech was quite unrivalled in its Intensity--in fact it took At least ten minutes.

A peroration full of flowers, A moisture in his other eye, And then a pause--it seemed of hours-- For her reply.

Her answer came. He thought of it, It haunted him for long years after, She simply burst into a fit Of ribald laughter.

And certainly it was absurd, She laughed till she could laugh no more; She'd heard the same thing, to a word, The day before.

Two tyros in the Art of Love, Each ARABELLA's ardent suitor, Unluckily were pupils of The self-same tutor!

So, should you fail to understand A maiden's answer, this may show Why sometimes Man proposes and The Girl says "No!"

SKIRTS AND FIGURES.--M. JACOBI, of the Alhambra, has composed a "Skirt-dance," which has recently appeared in the Figaro. That the skirts for which the Composer has written are brand-new, and require no mending, is evident from the fact that, from first to last, there is no "Skirt-sew"--in Italian, _Scherzo_--movement.

In the International Horticultural Exhibition is, as advertised, "the Kiosk of the Australian Irrigation Colonies (CHAFFEY Bros.)." What fun the CHAFFEY Brothers must make of everything in the Exhibition! As long as the other exhibitors don't mind the chaff of the CHAFFEY Brothers, all will be harmonious. No doubt, round their Kiosk there are crowds all day, in roars of laughter, at the chaffing perpetually going on. The travelling Cheap Jack, were he in the building, would have some difficulty to hold his own against even one of the CHAFFEY Brothers, but pitted against an unlimited number of CHAFFEY Brothers, for their number is not stated in the advertisement, the unfortunate Cheap Jack would not be let, off cheaply. Apart from BUFFALO BILL, whose Show with a variety of novelties, is still a very big attraction, and the other amusements, this exhibit of CHAFFEY Brothers engaged in chaff-cutting, must be about one of the most attractive things in the Horticultural. By the way, in this same advertisement, there is a mysterious announcement "Stand 48." Of course, if in addition to their entertainment, they "stand 48 "--though with this vintage we are not acquainted; perhaps it should be '84 Pommery,--then the Brothers are simply hors de concours, and competition would be hopeless.

Close under the Parade Watt a large circle has been formed, consisting chiefly of Women on chairs and camp-stools, with an inner ring of small children, who are all patiently awaiting the arrival of a troupe of Niggers. At the head of one of the flights of steps leading up to the Parade, a small and shrewish Child-nurse is endeavouring to detect and recapture a pair of prodigal younger Brothers, who have given her the slip.