Mr. Punch's Country Life: Humours of Our Rustics by J. A. Hammerton (top 100 books to read .TXT) 📗
- Author: J. A. Hammerton
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Second Tramp. "Yus; an' don't you see 'im a-growlin'? I dunno which end to believe!"
[Pg 78]
He. "I hope there are no bulls in here. I can't run as fast as I used to."
She. "I'm told that's the worst thing to do. I think if you stand and look at them, it's enough to send them away!"
[Pg 79]
Doctor. "Now remember, my man, three or four drops of this mixture three times a day—and inhale."
Patient. "Be I to take it in four or six hale, guv'nor?"
[Pg 80]
AGRICULTOORAL-LOORALS (By Dumb-Crambo Junior)[Pg 81]
[Pg 82]
In a Somersetshire Inn.—Mr. Fitz-Archibald Smith (of London, to the Landlord).—Is there a hair-dresser in the village? I want to be shampooed and shaved.
Landlord. Well, zur, I doant know much about the shampoodling, but our ostler's used to clipping horses. Would 'e like to try him?
From the Poultry.—When does a hen like beer? When she has a little brood.
Shocking Bad Husbandry.—Baby-farming.
Latest from our Farmyard.—In the Fowl House.—"Left sitting."
"A Little Learning."—Lady Tactful (visiting small farmer). I hope, John, the rain has not damaged the wheat.
John. Ah, my lady, some of it will never grow; the wet has busted it.
Mrs. John (who is "educated"). He should have said "bursted" my lady. That's what he means.
Lady Tactful. Never mind. I think I prefer the old-fashioned pronunciation.
[Pg 83]
Amateur Gardener (to goat-fancying neighbour). "Hi, madam. One of your confounded pets has got into my garden, and is eating my bedding-plants!"
Neighbour. "Good gracious! I trust they are not poisonous!"
[Pg 84]
More Amalgamation.—Parish Councillor. "Wull, I do voate that the two par'shes be marmaladed."
Chairman. "Our worthy brother councillor means, I understand, that the two parishes should be jammed together!"
[Pg 85]
Village Gossip. "Did ye 'ere as owd Sally Sergeant's dead? 'Er what's bin pew-opener up to Wickleham Church nigh on fifty year."
The Village Atheist (solemnly). "Ah! see what comes o' pew-openin'!"
[Pg 86]
The Highest Possible Record of Character.—New Rector of Swaddlington (to Sexton). I see that the forge is close by the church, Grassmore. I hope that the smith is one of our friends?
Sexton. Why, bless 'ee, yes, sir, 'e 's the only man in all the parish as settled over the Cesarewitch.
Hint to the Managers of Poultry Shows.—Exhibit some henpecked husbands.
A Black Country Synonym.—Ruling with a rod of iron.—Beating your wife with a poker.
A Perfect Cure.—Town Man. "How jolly it must be, living down here in the country!"
Country Gentleman. "Oh, I don't know. It's rather a torpid sort of life; time passes very slowly."
Town Man. "Time passes slowly? You should get somebody to draw on you at three months!!"
The Language of Flowers.—When the roses sweetly breathe a dew.
[Pg 87]
Forbearance.—Young Lady. "John, how long shall you be, as I want to practise?"
Gallant Young Gardener. "Oh, goo yeouw on, Miss Amy—goo yeouw on! I sha'n't mind yar noise!"
[Pg 88]
THE FARMING OF THE FUTURE; Or, What British Agriculture is coming to.Scene.—A Car on an Electric Light-railway.
Time—The Twentieth Century.
First Farmer (recognising Second Farmer). Why, 'tis Muster Fretwail, surelie! didn't see it was you afore. And how be things gettin' along with you, sir, eh?
Farmer Fretwail (lugubriously). 'Mong the middlin's, Muster Lackaday; 'mong the middlin's! Nothen doin' just now—nothen 't all!
Third Farmer (enviously). Well, you hevn't no call fur to cry out, neighbour! I see you've got a likely lot o' noo 'oardins comin' up all along your part o' the line. I wish mine wur arf as furrard, I know thet!
F. Fretwail. Ah, them "Keep yer 'air on" 's, you mean, Ryemouth. I don't deny as they was lookin' tidy enough a week back. But just as I was makin' ready fur to paint up "Try it on a Billiard Ball," blamed if this yere frost didn't set [Pg 90]in, and now theer's everything at a standstill wi' the brushes froze 'ard in the pots!
F. Ryemouth. 'Tis the same down with me. Theer 's a acre o' "Bunyan's Easy Boots" as must hev a noo coat, and I cann't get nothen done to 'en till th' weather's a bit more hopen like. Don' keer 'ow soon we hev a change, myself, I don't!
F. Lackaday. Nor yet me, so long as we don't 'ave no gales with it. Theer was my height-acre pasture as I planted only las' Candlemas wi' "Roopy's Lung Tonics"—wunnerful fine and tall they was too—and ivery one on 'en blowed down the next week!
F. Fretwail. Well, I 'ope theer wun't be no rain, neither, come to that. I know I 'ad all the P's of my "Piffler's Persuasive Pillules" fresh gold-leaved at Michaelmas, and it come on wet directly arter I done it, and reg'lar washed the gilt out o' sight an' knowledge, it did. Theer ain't no standin' up agen rain!
F. Ryemouth. I dunno as I wouldn't as lief hev rain as sun. My "Hanti-Freckle Salves" all blistered up and peeled afoor the summer was 'ardly begun a'most.
[Pg 92]
F. Lackaday. 'Tis a turr'ble 'ard climate to make 'ead against, is ourn. I've 'eard tell as some farmers are takin' to they enamelled hiron affairs, same as they used to hev when I wur a lad. I mind theer wur a crop o' "Read Comic Cagmag" as lingered on years arter the paper itself. Not as I hold with enamelling, myself—'tain't what I call 'igh farmin'—takes too much outer the land in my 'pinion.
F. Fretwail. Aye, aye. "Rotation o' boards." Say, "Spooner's Sulphur Syrup" fur a spring crop, follered with some kind o' soap or candles, and p'raps cough lozengers, or hembrocation, or bakin' powder, if the soil will bear it, arterwards—that's the system I wur reared on, and theer ain't no better, 'pend upon it!
F. Ryemouth. I tell 'ee what 'tis; it's time we 'ad some protection agen these yere furrin advertisements. I was travellin' along the Great Northern tother day, and I see theer was two or three o' them French boards nigh in ivery field, a downright shame an' disgrace I call it, disfigurin' the look o' the country and makin' it that ontidy—let alone drivin' honest British boards off the [Pg 94]land. Government ought to put a stop to it; that's what I say!
F. Lackaday. They Parliment chaps don't keer what becomes of us poor farmers, they don't. Look at last General Election time. They might ha' given our boards a turn; but not they. Most o' they candidates did all their 'tisin' with rubbishy flags and balloons—made in Japan, sir, every blamed one o' them! And they wonder British agriculture don't prosper more!
F. Ryemouth. Speakin' o' queer ways o' hadvertisin', hev any on ye set eyes on that farm o' young Fullacrank's? Danged if iver I see sech tom-fool notions as he's took up with in all my born days!
F. Fretwail. Why, what hev he bin up to now, eh?
F. Ryemouth. Well, I thought I shud ha' bust myself larfin' when I see it fust. Theer ain't not a board nor a sky sign; no, nor yet a 'oarding, on the 'ole of his land!
F. Lackaday. Then how do he expect to get a profit out of it?—that's what I want to year.
F. Ryemouth. You' ll 'ardly credit it, neighbours [Pg 96]but he's been buryin' some o' they furrin grains, hoats and barley, an' I dunno what not, in little 'oles about his fields, so as to make the words, "Use Faddler's Non-farinaceous Food"—and the best on it is the darned young fool expecks as 'ow it'll all sprout come next Aperl—he do indeed, friends!
F. Fretwail. Flyin' in the face of Providence, I calls it. He must ha' gone clean out of his senses!
F. Lackaday. Stark starin' mad. I never heerd tell o' such extravagance. Why, as likely as not, 'twill all die off o' the land afore the year's out—and wheer wull he be then?
F. Ryemouth. Azackly what I said to 'en myself. "You tek my word for it," I sez, "'twun't niver come to no good. The nateral crop for these yere British Hisles," I told 'en, "is good honest Henglish hoak an' canvas," I sez, "and 'tain't the action of no sensible man, nor yet no Christian," sez I, "to go a drillin' 'oles and a-droppin' in houtlandish seeds from Canada an' Roosha, which the sile wasn't never intended to bear!"
Farmers Fretwail and Lackaday. Rightly spoke, neighbour Ryemouth, 'twas a true word! But theer'll be a jegement on sech new-fangled doin's, and, what's moor, you and I will live fur to see it afore we're very much older!
[They all shake their heads solemnly as scene closes in.
[Pg 89]
[Pg 91]
The New Curate. "Superb day, isn't it?" Giles. "Ay?" Curate. "Superb day." Giles. "Ay?" Curate. "Er—a—superb—day!" Giles. "Whoa, Dobbin!" (Pulls up). "Ay?" Curate. "I only remarked—er—it was a superb day." Giles. "D——! Gw'on, Dobbin!"
[Pg 93]
Serious Old Party. "Eh, but this is a wicked world!"
Flippant Individual. "You are right, Mrs. Mumble. For my part, I shall be quite satisfied if I get out of it alive!"
[Pg 95]
Obliging.—Lady (to village jobber, who for days has been "working" in the house). "Can you tell me when you are likely to have finished this job?" Village Jobber. "If you can tell me, mum, wheer I'm likely to get another."
[Pg 97]
Useful information.—Jones (who has forsworn town life for a more healthful existence, to hired compendium of agricultural knowledge at 14s. 6d. a week, with cottage and 'tater patch). "Do you know anything about bees, Isaac?" Isaac. "Yes, they stings!"
[Pg 98]
RURAL FELICITY[This is the second Nature article that has recently arrived at Mr. Punch's offices through inadvertence. It was obviously intended for The Country-Side, the new Harmsworth-Robinson organ, which is designed to bring home to townsmen the wonders of country life.]
Evening in the country! A Spring evening! Ah, you dweller in the close perfervid city, how I wish I could have transported you to my side yesterday, while I stood and watched the sinking fire of day (a bright impulsive fellow this sun) waving me from his Orient window.
A Glad Good-night!How I wish you could have lain near me on that pile of fresh-cut hay, redolent of clover and the scarlet vetch, lulled to sleep, it may be, by the low [Pg 100]moaning of rats in the stack, or the melancholy hoot of the night-jar! Sleep follows swiftly, sleep such as you denizens of the crowded street can never know—sleep beneath the stars.
Up with the lark! Shelley's skylark! There he is, the blithe unconscious creature, hovering above the plough-share, ready to pounce upon the first unwary field-vole upturned from his
Nest in the Luxuriant Loam.My heart is full to bursting as I pass onward into the harvest-field and watch the
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