Punch, or the London Charivari, January 12th, 1895

Oh, the Fatherland, the happy Fatherland, With fresh happiness will hum, When their Emperor shall the Order wear Of the Jap Chry-san-the-mum! He's "a daisy" now, as the world doth know; But, oh! won't he be thrice happy, When he sports the badge of the Golden Flower Of the cute and grateful Jappy? If JOHN CHINAMAN in the little Jap Has most surely caught a Tartar, Jap learned to war 'neath the Teuton Star, So will send him the Jap "Garter." BULL has given him tips, and has built him ships, But the Jap don't badge J. B. No! Peace and War, like most other things, Are now "made in Ger-ma-ny"!

"SENTIMENT" FOR OLD-FASHIONED PLAY-GOERS.--"May that confounded 'Woman with a Past,' who monopolises the Present, have no Future!"

Benevolent Person (recognising an old protégé). "ROGERS, I'M SORRY TO SEE YOU IN THIS CONDITION! I UNDERSTOOD YOU HAD TAKEN THE PLEDGE!"

Rogers. "YOU'RE QUI' RI', SIR. ONLY Y' SEE THE WATER'S FROZEN 'T THE MAIN DOWN OUR STREET!"]

PART I.--_The Coming into Possession of the Donkey._

"Yes, Sir," said my excellent and admirable clerk, PORTINGTON, "he came here three times, about a month ago. We thought he was mad, so would not let him in. But the third time he left that parcel and that letter. You see, Sir, they are tied together, and as there was a bomb scare on at the time, we did not touch them. That's how it comes, Sir, that you have not had them earlier."

I must confess I was a little annoyed. I frequently absent myself from Pump-Handle Court for days and even weeks together, and then I expect my clerical (I use the adjective in its non-ecclesiastical sense) representative to forward my correspondence.

"It cannot be helped, PORTINGTON," I replied; "all I care for are the interests of my clients. If the visitor was one anxious to lay his case before me, I can only trust he has not suffered by my unpremeditated absence."

"I do not think he will have to complain of that, Sir. And as to his case, we don't know whether it is one; none of us like to touch the parcel, lest it should go off."

"You mean with a report--it must get reported," I suggested, with a smile. I allow myself a little frolicsome levity at Yuletide. "Well, where is it?"

"In your room, Sir," and PORTINGTON led the way to my special apartment.

I found my chamber tenanted by a miscellaneous collection of articles. Truth to tell I do not use my rooms very frequently, and consequently it has become a sort of a proverb amongst my co-parceners in Pump-Handle Court, à propos of anything of a cumbersome character, "When in doubt, put it into BRIEFLESS'S cupboard." Not that I really occupy a cupboard; my room (I lay the emphasis on the word) is far more commodious than the largest specimen of those receptacles. Consequently, I was not altogether surprised to find collected together a banjo-case, some curtain rods, a number of framed pictures, and a damaged bicycle. In the centre of the room was an oblong parcel, to which was tied an envelope, doubtless containing an enclosure.

With some slight trepidation--I had no wish to accompany Pump-Handle Court to the skies--I opened the letter. It ran as follows:--

"To A. BRIEFLESS, JUNIOR, ESQ.--Dear and Honoured Sir,--I have long desired to show you some token of goodwill. I have frequently read your contributions to the leading legal paper of the day (I refer, of course, to the London Charivari), and have been filled with admiration at the clearness of your style and the depth of your knowledge of what may be termed the duplex action of the human heart. As I happen to be Emperor of CHINA I write anonymously. I have been ruined by law and the lawyers. You have never represented me or opposed me. For this I am very, very grateful, and beg you to accept the accompanying present. It is a ---- But hush, we are observed."

And at this point the document abruptly terminated. I read the letter to PORTINGTON, and asked his opinion upon it. He replied abruptly he "considered the writer a lunatic."

"Well, no, I do not think we can go quite so far as that," I observed. "You see, he seems to have some appreciation of my talents. He may be a trifle eccentric, but I fancy nothing worse."

Encouraged by this belief in the sanity of my semi-anonymous (I use the epithet advisedly, as I take it that the incidental claim to the throne of the Celestial Empire was not urged seriously) correspondent, I opened the package. The brown paper unwound and a picture was revealed to us. It had evidently been painted for many years. The frame (which, in PORTINGTON'S opinion, was the best portion of the structure) was distinctly old-fashioned. The gilding was tarnished and the woodwork out of repair.

"What is the subject?" I asked, after three or four minutes' close inspection.

"I think, Sir," replied my excellent and admirable clerk, "that it's something to do with a donkey."

PORTINGTON was right. On closer investigation the painting revealed itself to be the representation of a cottage in the snow, with some villagers drawing water from a half-frozen pond in the neighbourhood of a rather intelligent donkey, who was watching their proceedings with languid interest.

"Certainly it is a donkey," I exclaimed; "and, to my thinking, a very fine one."

"What shall we do with it, Sir?" asked PORTINGTON. "It's no good here; shall I give it to the dustman? He would take it away if we asked him."

For a moment I thought my clerical (I use the adjective in its non-ecclesiastical sense) representative was indulging in jocularity. I found I was in error. PORTINGTON was absolutely serious.

"You evidently do not know the value of some of these old frames. Of course I shall take the picture with me to my private residence."

I carried out my intention. The canvas presentment of the donkey and accessories was carefully conveyed in a four-wheeler to Justinian Gardens, where I have rented for some years a very pleasant house. The lady who has honoured me by taking my name, and whom in my more playful humour I sportively term my "better seven-eighths," received me.

"I hope you have brought the music from the Stores," said the lady, after our first greetings. "I suppose that package came from Victoria Street?"

"No, my precious one," I replied; I sometimes use terms of endearment to the members of my domestic circle. "It is a picture given to me by a grateful client."

"Client!" she exclaimed; "and a grateful one! What a find! But why bring it here? Haven't we already more pictures than we want? Why at this moment there's half-a-dozen of extra plates from the Christmas numbers that you would have framed, waiting to be hung."

"But this, my love, is an oil-painting, with what I judge to be a very valuable old-fashioned frame."