Mr. Punch's Country Life: Humours of Our Rustics

Opening

COUNTRY LIFE

PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

Edited by J. A. HAMMERTON

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Designed to provide in a series of volumes, each complete in itself, the cream of our national humour, contributed by the masters of comic draughtsmanship and the leading wits of the age to "Punch," from its beginning in 1841 to the present day

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MR. PUNCH'S COUNTRY LIFE

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MR. PUNCH'S COUNTRY LIFE

HUMOURS OF OUR RUSTICS

AS PICTURED BY

PHIL MAY, L. RAVEN-HILL, CHARLES KEENE, GEORGE DU MAURIER, BERNARD PARTRIDGE, GUNNING KING, LINLEY SAMBOURNE, G. D. ARMOUR, C. E. BROCK, TOM BROWNE, LEWIS BAUMER, WILL OWEN, F. H. TOWNSEND, G. H. JALLAND, G. E. STAMPA, AND OTHERS

WITH 180 ILLUSTRATIONS

PUBLISHED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH

THE PROPRIETORS OF "PUNCH"

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THE EDUCATIONAL BOOK CO. LTD.

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THE PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

Twenty-five volumes, crown 8vo, 192 pages fully illustrated

LIFE IN LONDON COUNTRY LIFE IN THE HIGHLANDS SCOTTISH HUMOUR IRISH HUMOUR COCKNEY HUMOUR IN SOCIETY AFTER DINNER STORIES IN BOHEMIA AT THE PLAY MR. PUNCH AT HOME ON THE CONTINONG RAILWAY BOOK AT THE SEASIDE MR. PUNCH AFLOAT IN THE HUNTING FIELD MR. PUNCH ON TOUR WITH ROD AND GUN MR. PUNCH AWHEEL BOOK OF SPORTS GOLF STORIES IN WIG AND GOWN ON THE WARPATH BOOK OF LOVE WITH THE CHILDREN

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ON RUSTIC HUMOUR

Than the compilation of such a series of books as that which includes the present volume there could surely be no more engaging occupation for one who delights to look on the humorous side of life. The editor feels that if his readers derive as much enjoyment from the result of his labours as these labours have afforded him he may reasonably congratulate them! He has found himself many times over, as a book has taken shape from his gatherings in the treasure house of Mr. Punch, saying "This is the best of the lot"--and usually he has been right. There is none but is "the best!" There may be one that is not quite so good as the other twenty-four; but wild horses would not drag the name of that one from the editor. He feels, however, that in illustrating the humours of country life Mr. Punch has risen to the very summit of his genius. There is, of course, good reason for this, as it is notorious that the richest humour is to be found in the lowly walks of life, and flourishes chiefly in rustic places where folks are simple and character has been allowed to grow with something of that individuality we find in the untouched products of Nature. Your true humorist has always been in quick sympathy with the humblest of his fellow men. In the village worthy, in poor blundering Hodge, in the rough but kindly country doctor, the picturesque tramp, the droning country parson, the inept curate, the village glee singers, and such like familiar figures of rural England, the humorist has never failed to find that "source of innocent merriment" he might seek for vainly in more exalted ranks of our complex society. But he seeks among the country folk because his heart is there. The very best of Mr. Punch's humorists of the pencil, Charles Keene and Phil May in the past, and Mr. Raven-Hill and Mr. C. E. Brock to-day, have given more consideration to the country ways of life than to any other, and hence the exceeding richness of the present volume. It is thus in no sense a comic picture of Mr. Punch's notions of how the so-called country life is attempted by the townsman--one of the most notable features of our present social conditions--but is, in effect, a refreshing breath of genuine rustic humour, kindly, whole-hearted, and "racy of the soil."

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MR. PUNCH'S COUNTRY LIFE

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THE BEST SHARE IN A FARM.--The plough-share.

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A PROVERB FRESH FROM THE COUNTRY.--No gooseberry without a thorn.

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THE CONNOISSEURS.--Groom. "Whew's Beer do you like best--this 'ere hom'brewed o' Fisk's, or that there ale they gives yer at the White Ho's'?" Keeper (critically). "Well, o' the tew I prefers this 'ere. That there o' Wum'oods's don't fare to me to taste o' nawthun at all. Now this 'ere dew taste o' the cask!!"

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THE LANGUAGE OF FRUITS

Apple Discord. Pear Marriage. Plum Wealth. Pine Languishment. Gooseberry Simplicity. Medlar Interference. Service Assistance. Elder-berry Seniority. Fig Defiance. Sloe Tardiness. Crab Sour Temper. Date Chronology. Hip Applause. Haw Swells. Plaintain Growth. Pomegranate Seediness. Prune Retrenchment.

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THE REAL LAND QUESTION.--How to make land answer.

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PERFECT QUIET.--The still room.

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A COUNTRY SELL.--Native Joker (dissembling). It's been very fine here for the last week.

Tourist (who has been kept in by the showers, indignantly). What's been very fine here?

Native. The rain. Very fine rain.

[Exit Native Joker, hurriedly.

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"THE BEST OF IT."--First Gentleman Farmer. "Why, there goes that artful rogue, Billy Giles! Is he at his old tricks still?"

Second Ditto. "He has cheated everybody down about here, sir, except me! He tried it on this winter, but I was too clever for him! Sold me a cow, and--(triumphantly)--I made him take it back at half-price!!"

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THE REAL "LAND AGITATION."--An earthquake.

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A CRY FROM KENT.

Prosperity's fled from our gardens and grounds; How spindly our bines and how scanty our crops! Wealth may be "advancing by leaps and by bounds," It certainly isn't by hops!

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ADVICE TO FARMERS.--Feed your poultry well, and you will insure full crops.

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"I'm sorry to hear you've been ailing again, John. I must send you down something from the Rectory. How would you like some soup?"

"Thanky kindly, mum--but I bain't so terr'ble wrapped up in soup!"

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WHAT RURAL DEANS SMOKE.--"Church-wardens."

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NOTE BY A CHIROPODIST (in the country for the first time).--"Must be very painful--corn in the ear."

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A PASTORAL.--How should a shepherd arrange his dress? In folds.

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THE DUNMOW FLITCH.--All gammon.

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AN OLD OFFENDER.--Country Gentleman (eyeing his Gardener suspiciously). "Dear, dear me, Jeffries, this is too bad! After what I said to you yesterday, I didn't think to find you----"

Gardener. "You can't shay--(hic)--I wash drunk yesht'day, sh----!"

Country Gentleman (sternly). "Are you sober this morning, sir?"

Gardener. "I'm--shlightly shober, shir!!"

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RECIPROCITY.--Parson. "I have missed you from your pew of late, Mr. Stubbings----"

Farmer (apologetically). "Well, sir, I hev' been to meet'n' lately, but--y' see, sir, the Reverend Mr. Scowles o' the chapel, he bought some pigs o' me, and I thought I ought to gi' 'm a tarn!"

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THE FARMER FOR THE FAIR.--A husbandman.

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ON A FOOTING.--Almost every considerable town has a market for corn; therefore, it is but fit that Bedford Market-place should have its Bunyan.

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PLACE OF RESIDENCE FOR LODGERS.--Border-land.

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SOUNDINGS!--(The living down at our village falling vacant, Lord Pavondale left it to the parish to choose the new rector.)

Influential Parishioner. "Then am I to understand, Mr. Maniple, that you object to bury a Dissenter?"

The Rev. Mr. Maniple (one of the competitors). "Oh, dear me, no, Mr. Jinks; quite the contrary!"

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A HIGH CHURCH PARTY.--A steeple-jack.

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A CLERICAL ERROR.--A long sermon.

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Visitor. "My good man, you keep your pigs much too near the house."

Cottager. "That's just what the doctor said, mum. But I don't see how it's agoin' to hurt 'em!"

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A WET DIARY

January.--Buy a house in the Midland Counties. Put a housekeeper in it to look after it.

February.--Housekeeper writes to say that, owing to the floods, the neighbourhood is very damp and unhealthy.

March.--Housekeeper writes to say that the garden is under water.

April.--Housekeeper writes to say that there is two foot of water in the drawing-room, and that the furniture is floating about.

May.--Housekeeper writes to say that eighty feet of the garden wall has been washed away.

June.--Housekeeper writes to say that the two horses, one cow, and four pigs are drowned.

July.--Go and stop in the house myself.

August.--Escape from the bedroom windows in a boat.

September.--In bed with rheumatic fever.

October.--Housekeeper writes to say that the floods are out worse than ever.

November.--Somebody writes to say that the housekeeper has been drowned.

December.--Will try and sell house in the Midland Counties.

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A REAL CONVERT.--Local Preacher (giving an account to the vicar of the parish of a dispute he has had with the leading lights of his sect). "Yes, sir, after treatment the likes o' that, I says to 'em, 'For the future,' says I, 'I chucks up all religion, and I goes to Church!'"

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HABITS OF HEALTHY EXERCISE.--If a young lady is unable to sport a riding habit, she should adopt a walking habit.

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TOWN THOUGHTS FROM THE COUNTRY

(With the usual apologies.)

Oh, to be in London now that April's there, And whoever walks in London sees, some morning in the square, That the upper thousands have come to town, To the plane-trees droll in their new bark gown, While the sparrows chirp, and the cats miaow In London--now! And after April, when May follows And the black-coats come and go like swallows! Mark, where yon fairy blossom in the Row Leans to the rails, and canters on in clover, Blushing and drooping, with her head bent low! That's the wise child: she makes him ask twice over, Lest he should think she views with too much rapture Her first fine wealthy capture! But,--though her path looks smooth, and though, alack! All will be gay, till Time has painted black The Marigold, her mother's chosen flower,-- Far brighter is my Heartsease, Love's own dower.

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MRS. RAMSBOTHAM is staying with her niece in the country. She is much delighted with the rich colour of the spring bulbs, and says she at last understands the meaning of "as rich as Crocus."

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A CONUNDRUM TO FILL UP A GAP IN THE CONVERSATION.--Why is a person older than yourself like food for cattle?

Because he's past your age (pasturage).

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EVERYTHING COMES TO THE MAN WHO WAITS.--Country Rector's Wife (engaging man-servant). And can you wait at dinner?

Man. Aw, yes, mum; I'm never that hoongry but I can wait till you've done.

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A RUSTIC MORALIST.--Rector (going his rounds). "An uncommonly fine pig, Mr. Dibbles, I declare!"

Contemplative Villager. "Ah, yes, sir: if we was only, all of us, as fit to die as him, sir!!"

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QUERY.--Has the want of rain this summer, and consequent failure of the hay crops, affected the market for Grass Widows?

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LOCAL PECULIARITIES

At Bilston they always hit the right nail on the head.

At Bolton it is impossible for those who run up ticks to bolt off.

At Broadstairs the accommodation for stout visitors is unrivalled.

At Colchester they are all "natives."

At Coventry, strange to say, they can furnish no statistics of the number of persons who have been sent there.

At Kidderminster there is certain to be something fresh on the tapis.

At Liverpool they are extremely orthodocks.

If you write to Newcastle (Staffordshire) take care to under-Lyne the address.

At Newmarket they take particular interest in the question of races.

At Portsmouth everything is ship-shape.

At Rye you will meet none but Rye faces.

At Sheffield you will always find a knife and fork laid for you.

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WHAT OUR ARCHITECT HAS TO PUT UP WITH.--Our Architect (Spotting Sixteenth Century gables). "That's an old bit of work, my friend!"

"Oi, sir, yeu be roight, theer, that you be!"

O. A. (keen for local tradition). "You don't know exactly how old, I suppose?"

"Well, noa, sir; but old it be! Whoi, I's knowed it myself these noine years!"

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OUR VILLAGE INDUSTRIAL COMPETITION.--Husband (just home from the City). "My angel!--crying!--Whatever's the matter?"

Wife. "They've--awarded me--prize medal"--(sobbing)--"f' my sponge cake!"

Husband (soothingly). "And I'm quite sure it deserv----"

Wife (hysterically). "Oh--but--'t said--'twas--for the best specimen--o' concrete!"

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Our Choir-master (after lamentable failure on part of Pupil). "Confound it! I thought you said you could 'Read at sight'?"

Pupil. "So I can. But not first sight."

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A TRULY RURAL DEAN.--The Dean of Ferns.

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THE SWEETS OF COUNTRY LIFE

(Depicted by a Man of Feeling)

'Tis sweet at Summer eve to rove, When brightly shines each twinkling star, And, strolling through the silent grove, Calmly to smoke a good cigar.

'Tis sweet upon the flowery mead To see the tender lambkins play, With pensive eye to watch them feed, And note how plump to roast are they.

'Tis sweet the fallow deer to view, Couched 'mid the fern in tranquil group; 'Tis sweet to hear the turtle's coo, And meditate on turtle soup.

'Tis sweet, from cares domestic free, While wandering by the streamlet's side, The speckled trout or perch to see, And think how nice they would be, fried.

'Tis sweet to mark the plover's flight, Lone on the moor, its nest despoiled; And with prospective mental sight To contemplate its eggs, hard boiled.

'Tis sweet, beside the murmuring rill, The scented violet to smell; Yet may a perfume sweeter still Attend the welcome dinner-bell!

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FRIENDS IN COUNCIL.--Tom Lothbury (to Jack Billiter, who has "come in" to a nice little estate in Surrey, whereunto he intends retiring and rusticating). "You'll keep cows, I s'pose, and all that sort of thing?"

Jack. "Oh, no, can't bear milk."

Tom (who has a taste for the rural). "Cocks and hens, then?"

Jack. "No, hate eggs and puddings and all that!"

Tom. "Nor yet sheep?"

Jack. "Eh, ah! Oh, yes; I'll have a sheep, I'm vewy fond of kidneys for bweakfast!"

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QUERY.--If you give two persons a seat in a cornfield, can this proceeding be called "setting them by the ears"?

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SIMPLE, BUT AGRICULTURAL.--Q. What is the best time for sowing tares?

A. When the landlord goes round and collects his rents.

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FOX'S MARTYRS.--Ducks, fowls, turkeys, and geese.

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ON THE WAY TO THE MANSE.--Deacon MacTavish (to Deacon MacBrose, after visiting several hospitable houses on their way). Hoot, mon Donald, yonder's the Meenister! Noo, I'll joost tek a few paces afore ye, in that ye may say gin my puir tired legs don't tremble.

Deacon MacBrose. Gae forrard, Sandy, gae forrard!

Deacon MacTavish (after stumbling ahead for several yards). Weel, Donald, hoo gae they?

Deacon MacBrose. Richt bonnily, Sandy, richt bonnily. But wha's the mon that's walking beside ye?

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FROM THE MINING DISTRICTS.--(Young Curate finds a Miner sitting on a gate smoking.)--Curate (desirous to ingratiate himself with one of his flock). A fine morning, my friend.

One of his flock gives the slightest nod, and a grunt, and spits.

Curate (supposing that he had not been heard). A fine morning, my good friend.

One of his flock. Did I say it warn't. Do you want to hargue, you beggar?

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A POACHER'S PARADISE.--About an hour from town.--Charming bijou residence ... grounds adjoin a large pheasant preserve; owner going abroad.--Advt. in "Standard."

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"A CROP EXPERT."--A professional hair-dresser.

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FARM NOTES

How to Winnow Corn. 1st Method.--Get some corn. Get somebody who knows how to winnow it. Let him do it.

2nd Method.--If you know all about it, do it yourself.

3rd Method, for Beginners, given in Agricultural Terms. Place a steward near the blower, and let him drive the blower while the hopper is filled with a large wecht. (This is called the system of Hopper-ation.) Then let a woman with a small wecht slide down on a wheel crushing the blower with her shoes. This should be done in a neat, cleanly way until the scum has been swept with a besom through a wire screen, while another lot go on riddling, when it is the duty of the fanner to answer each riddle as it comes out. The fanner's chief work is, however, to prevent any labourer becoming too hot. When a labourer is very warm, he sits down before the fanner, who soon restores him to coolness.

Treatment of Fowls in Winter.--Roast them.

For the Volunteer-farmer in Winter.--Attend turnip drills.

How to Pickle Pork.--Get the hog into a proper temperature. To bring this about make him swallow a small thermometer. This'll warm him. Rub him with paper dipped in oil, give him a uniform coating of barley, tar, syrup of squills, pitch, and gold tin-foil. Paint his head green with orange stripes, and by that time he'll be in a pretty pickle.

Breakfast.--Always visit your poultry yard before breakfast. If unable to find a fresh egg, go to the cattle sheds. Remember that, where eggs cannot be obtained, a yoke of fine oxen beaten up with a cup of tea is most invigorating.

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AGRICULTURAL.--A South of England farmer writes to us to say, that he has an early harvest in view, as he has already got three ricks in his neck, and is doing very well.

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FURTHER ILLUSTRATION OF THE MINING DISTRICTS.--First Polite Native. "Who's 'im, Bill?"

Second ditto. "A stranger!"

First ditto. "'Eave 'arf a brick at 'im."

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HOW TO TREAT ROUGH DIAMONDS.--Cut them!

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[Illustration:

SAGACITY.--Countryman. "Fi' pounds too much for him? He's a won'erful good sportin' daug, sir! Why, he come to a dead pint in the street, sir, close ag'in a ol' gen'leman, the other day--'fust o' September it was, sir!--an' the gen'leman told me arterwards as his name were 'Partridge'!"

Customer. "You don't say so!" [Bargain struck.]

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HORTICULTURE UP TO DATE

Stimulated by the recent achievements of a horticulturist, who is about to place on the market the "pomato," a blend of the apple and tomato, and the "plumcot," a mixture of plum and apricot, Mr. Punch hopes soon to be able to announce the successful rearing of the following novelties:--

The Cumberry.--This may be regarded either as a very long gooseberry or a very short cucumber, according to fancy. When fully ripe the skin is thin and the contents pulpy. Unripe it is like a cobble, and may be used as such. Mr. Punch is disposed to think that the over-ripe cumberry will be very popular at elections, especially when eggs are scarce. The hairy variety looks like a fat caterpillar, and makes very good grub.

The Mistletato, a happy combination of the romantic and the domestic. This fruit, which has a very piquant flavour, has been grown in a small patch of soil, concealed, like King CHARLES, among the branches of an oak. Hence it is not surprising that the Mistletato should combine the nourishing qualities of the homely tuber with the sentimental associations of that plant which was revered by our Druid ancestors and is beloved by modern maidens. It should be a popular dish at wedding breakfasts.

The Pumpkonion promises well and seems likely to combine the amplitude of the pumpkin with the pungency of the onion. Mr. Punch is of opinion that a machine will have to be invented for dealing with this vegetable, as to handle it would be too severe a tax upon the cook's lachrymal glands.

The Turniparrot and the Parsniparagus are not yet sufficiently developed to be described with any confidence. Many others are only in an incipient state at present, but Mr. Punch hopes to be able before long to announce that he has brought several to maturity, including the Collage and the Cabbyflower.

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A RIDDLE FROM COLNEY HATCH.--Q. Why have we reason to suppose that a bee is a rook?

A. Because.

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THE ORIGIN OF RURAL DECADENCE.--Through communications corrupt good manners.

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WAGES AND WIVES.--Philanthropic Farmer. "Well, Tompkins, after this week, instead of paying you partly in cider, I shall give you two shillings extra wages."

Tompkins. "No, thanky', master; that won't do for me!"

Farmer. "Why, man, you'll be the gainer; for the cider you had wasn't worth two shillings!"

Tompkins. "Ah, but you see I drinks the cider myself; but the ow'd 'ooman 'll 'ev the two shillun'!!"

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A PUZZLE IN HORTICULTURE.--Little Chris. Daddy, what makes onions?

Daddy. Seeds, of course.

Little Chris. Then what makes seeds?

Daddy. Onions.

Little Chris (triumphantly). Then why don't us feed the canary on onions?

[Discomfiture and retreat of Daddy.

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AGRICULTURAL QUESTION.--Is a landlord who allows his farms to be over-stocked with rabbits entitled to be called a great bunnyfactor?

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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?

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FROM THE POULTRY.--When does a hen like beer? When she has a little brood.

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SHOCKING BAD HUSBANDRY.--Baby-farming.

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LATEST FROM OUR FARMYARD.--In the Fowl House.--"Left sitting."

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"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.

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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.

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HINT TO THE MANAGERS OF POULTRY SHOWS.--Exhibit some henpecked husbands.

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A BLACK COUNTRY SYNONYM.--Ruling with a rod of iron.--Beating your wife with a poker.

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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!!"

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THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.--When the roses sweetly breathe a dew.

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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 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.

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 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 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.

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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 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.

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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 gleaners at their busy toil. For one thing I have my "Topical Quotations" to prepare, and am "dividing my swift mind" between the Georgics of Virgil and Wordsworth's "Intimations of Immortality" for a suitable selection. Then there are the straw bonnets and rough smocks of the rustics to be sketched for the fashion-plate, and my column upon the Insanitary Condition of Birds' Nests to be compiled.

Yet how difficult to fix one's mind upon mere journalism, when on this side and on that the lithe rabbit is popping up from his "forme," and beneath their white blossoms the red strawberries lurk under every springing hedge-tuft. A glass of creamy butter-milk supplied by the smiling lass at the cottage wicket, together with a light and delicious scone

EATEN IN THE STUBBLE

under the sighing alders, has served me for my simple yet hygienic meal. And now as I watch the shepherd lead his flock of lowing kine into the pastures, the stately old bell-wether bringing up the rear, I feel that here is life indeed, and here (had the exigencies of a week-end return permitted) I could willingly have spent the remainder of my days, "the world forgetting, by the world forgot," but inexorable Fate with her iron shears forbids. I must

BACK TO THE SMOKY STREETS

once more and my half-finished essay on "Cotton-spinning in our Great Public Schools." Brief dream, farewell!

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[Illustration: "Be it true as your nevvy b'ain 't?] a-goin' to marry that Miss Giles arter all?"

"Well, you see I 'vised 'un to gie up matrimony, an' take to a trade."]

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MR. PUNCH'S AGRICULTURAL NOVEL

BO AND THE BLACKSHEEP.

A Story of the Sex.

(By THOMAS OF WESSEX, _Author of "Guess how a Murder feels," "The Cornet Minor," "The Horse that Cast a Shoe," "One in a Turret," "The Foot of Ethel hurt her," "The Flight of the Bivalve," "Hard on the Gadding Crowd," "A Lay o' Deceivers," &c._)

["I am going to give you", writes the Author of this book, "one of my powerful and fascinating stories of life in modern Wessex. It is well known, of course, that although I often write agricultural novels, I invariably call a spade a spade, and not an agricultural implement. Thus I am led to speak in plain language of women, their misdoings, and their undoings. Unstrained dialect is a speciality. If you want to know the extent of Wessex, consult histories of the Heptarchy with maps."]

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