A 'Appy New Year to yer! That's the straight tip for to-day,
So I'm bound to be in it, old chip, though things don't _look_
remarkable gay.
I inclose you a card--a correct one, I 'ope, though it strikes one
as queer
That such picters is thought _apprypo_ this perticular time of the
year.
You'll observe there's a hangel in muslin a twisting 'erself all awry,
With some plums, happle-blossoms, and marigolds, backed by a dab
o' blue sky.
Dekkyrative it's called, so the mivvy informed me who nobbled
my tanner;
_I_ call it a little bit mixed, like the art on a Odd-Fellow's
banner.
But, bless you, it's all of a piece, Charlie--life is so muddled
with rot
That it takes rayther more than a judge or a jury to tell yer
wot's wot.
Whether knifing a boy 'cos one's peckish means murder if lyings are
libels,
Seem questions as bothers the big wigs, in spite of their blue books
and Bibles.
Where are we, old pal? that's the question. Perhaps it would add to
one's ease
If life wos declared a "mixed wobble," it's motter a "go as you
please."
But 'tisn't all cinder-path, Charlie, wus luck! if it was, with
"all in,"
You wouldn't go fur wrong, I fancy, in backing "yours truly" to win.
"A 'Appy New Year!" That's the cackle all over the shop like to-day.
Wot's 'Appiness? Praps Mister Ruskin and little Lord Garmoyle will say.
You an' me's got _our_ notions of yum-yum, as isn't fur wide
o' the mark,
But who'll give us change for 'em, Charlie? Ah! that's where we're
left in the dark.
The Reform Bill won't do it, my pippin, on that you may lay your
last dollar.
The fact is this 'Appy New Year fake is 'oller, mate, hutterly 'oller.
'Twon't fly--like the Christmas card hangels, it doesn't fit into
the facks;
All it does is to spread tommy-rot, and to break all the postmen's
poor backs.
You'll be thinking I've got the blue-mouldies, old man, and you
won't be fur hout.
Funds low with yours truly, my bloater, no chances of getting about.
Larks, any amount of 'em, going, advertisements gassing like fun,
But 'Arry, for once in the way, 's a stone-broker and not in the run.
It's cutting, that's wot it is, _cutting_. I'm so used to leading
the field,
That place as fust-fly at life's fences is one as I _don't_ like
to yield,
Espechly to one like Bill Blossit--no style, not a bit about Bill!
And they talk of a 'Appy New Year, mate, and cackle o' peace
and goodwill!
Oh yus, I'd goodwill 'em, Bill Blossit and false Fanny Friswell, a lot!
They are off to the world's fair to-night, sir, and _that's_ wy I
say it's such rot.
If form such as mine's to go 'obbling whilst mugginses win out
o' sight,
I say the world's handicap's wrong, mate, and Christmas cards won't
set it right.
Lor bless yer, 'e ain't got no patter, not more than a nutmeg,
Bill ain't;
But the railway has taken his shop, and he's come out as fresh as
new paint.
And so because _I'm_ out of luck, and that duffer has landed the chink,
She 'ooks onto him _like_ a bat to a belfry, sir! What do _you_ think?
A 'Appy New Year? Yus, it looks like it! Charlie, old chap, I've
heard tell
Of parties called pessymists, writers as swear the whole world's
a big sell;
No doubt they've bin jilted, or jockeyed by some such a juggins
as Bill;
And without real jam--cash and kisses--this world is a bitterish
pill.
Still, I wish you a 'Appy New Year, if you care for the kibosh,
old chappie,
Though 'taint 'igh art cards full o' gush and green paint'll make
you and me 'appy.
Wot _we_ want is lucre and larks, love and lotion as much as you'll
carry!
Give me them, and one slap at that Bill,--They're the new year
gifts to suit.
'ARRY.
* * * * *
AT SCARBOROUGH.--_'Arriet (pointing to postillions of pony-chaises)._
Why do all them boys wear them jackets?
_'Arry._ There's a stoopid question! Why, they're all jockeys a-training
for the Ledger, of course!
* * * * *
EGGING HIM ON.--_Knowing old Gentleman._ Now, sir, talking of eggs, can
you tell me where a ship lays to?
_Smart Youth (not in the least disconcerted)._ Don't know, sir, unless
it is in the hatchway.
* * * * *
RETREAT FOR COCKNEY IDLERS.--Earn nil.
* * * * *
[Illustration: AN EASTER OBJECT LESSON
(_At the Natural History Museum_)
_Visitor._ "Hullo! I say, I've got 'em agin! Gi' me the blue ribbon!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: HIS BEST "SOOT."
_Short-tempered Gentleman in Black (after violent collision with a
stonemason fresh from work)._ "Now, I'll arsk you jest to look at the
narsty beastly mess as you've gone and mide me in! Why, I'm simply
smothered in some 'orrid white stuff!! Why don't yer be more
careful!!!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: OVERHEARD DURING ONE OF OUR RECENT STORMY DAYS.
"What cheer, matey! Doin' any business?"
"Garn! Wot yer gettin' at? I ain't 'ere to do business. I'm takin' the
hopen hair treatment!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: ALWAYS BE KIND TO DUMB ANIMALS.
_Master._ "Jim!"
_Page._ "Yessir."
_Master._ "Rather a 'igh 'ill we're comin' to, ain't it?"
_Page._ "Very 'igh 'ill indeed, sir."
_Master._ "Ah! well, jest you jump down, Jim, and walk alongside a bit;
it'll make it easier for the poor 'orse, you know."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: REAL SYMPATHY.
_'Arry (reading account of the war in the East)._ "Ow, I s'y, 'Arriet,
they've bin an' took old Li 'Ung Chang's three-heyed peacock's feathers
all off 'im!"
_'Arriet (compassionately)._ "Pore old feller!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "SWEET LAVENDER!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "AUT CAESAR AUT NULLUS."
_Architect._ "What aspect would you like, Mr. Smithers?" _(who is about
to build a house)_.
_Mr. Smithers._ "Has Muggles"--(_a rival tradesman_)--"got a haspect?
'Cause--mind yer, I should like mine made a good deal bigger than
'is!!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE LAST STRAW.
_Miss Effie has left her sun-shade on the other side of the rivulet. The
chivalrous young De Korme attempts the dangerous pass in order to
restore it to her.
Obnoxiously Festive 'Arry (to him)._ "Ho, yuss! Delighted, I'm sure!
_Drop in any time you're passin'!_"]
* * * * *
'ARRY ON THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY