Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 107. August 4, 1894.

RATHER A CHANGE--FOR THE BETTER.--They (the dockers) wouldn't listen to BEN TILLETT. They cried out to him, "We keep you and starve ourselves." Hullo! the revolt of the sheep! are they beginning to think that their leaders and instigators are after all not their best friends? "O TILLETT not in Gath!" And Little BEN may say to himself, "I'll wait TILL-ETT's over."

"Distance lends enchantment"--kindly Distance! Wiping out all troubles and disgraces, How we seem to cast, with your assistance, All our boyish lines in pleasant places!

Greek and Latin, struggles mathematic, These were worries leaving slender traces; Now we tell the boys (we wax emphatic) How our lines fell all in pleasant places.

How we used to draw (immortal Wackford!) EUCLID's figures, more resembling faces, Surreptitiously upon the black-board, Crude yet telling lines in pleasant places.

Pleasant places! That was no misnomer. Impositions?--little heed scape-graces; Writing out a book or so of HOMER, Even those were lines in pleasant places!

How we scampered o'er the country, leading Apoplectic farmers pretty chases, Over crops, through fences all unheeding, Stiff cross-country lines in pleasant places.

Yes, and how--too soon youth's early day flies-- In the purling brook which seaward races How we used to poach with luscious May-flies, Casting furtive lines in pleasant places.

Then the lickings! How we took them, scorning Girlish outcry, though we made grimaces; Only smiled to find ourselves next morning Somewhat marked with lines in pleasant places!

Alma Mater, whether young or olden, Thanks to you for hosts of friendly faces, Treasured memories, days of boyhood golden, Lines that fell in none but pleasant places!

Round the omnibus, past the van, Rushing on with a reckless reel, Darts that horrible nuisance, an Ardent cyclist resolved that he'll Ride past everything he can, Heed not woman, or child, or man, Beat some record, some ride from Dan To Beersheba; that seems his plan. Why does not the Home Office ban London fiends of the whirling wheel?

Let them ride in the country so, Dart from Duncansbay Head to Deal, Shoot as straight as the flight of crow, Sweep as swallow that seeks a meal, We don't care how the deuce they go, But in thoroughfares where we know Cyclists, hurrying to and fro, Make each peaceable man their foe, Riders, walkers alike cry "Whoa! Stop these fiends of the whirling wheel!"

Amid the glowing pageant of the year There comes too soon th' inevitable shock, That token of the season sere, To the unthinking fair so cheaply dear, Who, like to shipwreck'd seamen, do it hail, And cry, "A Sale! a Sale! A Sale! a Summer Sale of Surplus Stock!"

See, how, like busy-humming bees Around the ineffable fragrance of the lime, Woman, unsparing of the salesman's time, Reviews the stock, and chaffers at her ease, Nor yet, for all her talking, purchases, But takes away, with copper-bulgèd purse, The textile harvest of a quiet eye, Great bargains still unbought, and power to buy.

Or she, her daylong, garrulous labour done, Some victory o'er reluctant remnants won, Fresh from the trophies of her skill, Things that she needed not, nor ever will, She takes the well-earned bun; Ambrosial food, DEMETER erst design'd As the appropriate food of womankind, Plain, or with comfits deck'd and spice; Or, daintier, dallies with an ice. Nor feels in heart the worse Because the haberdashers thus disperse Their surplus stock at an astounding sacrifice!

Yet Contemplation pauses to review The destinies that meet the silkworm's care, The fate of fabrics whose materials grew In the same fields of cotton or of flax, Or waved on fellow-flockmen's fleecy backs, And the same mill, loom, case, emporium, shelf, did share.