(_From our Youngest Contributor._)
MY DEAR MR. PUNCH,--This is about the last letter you will receive
from me. I know it is, as all will soon be over! And I shall be glad
of it. I can't last out until the Christmas holidays. Who could with
such food? Why, it would make a dog cough!
It's no use learning anything. Why should I, when it will be all over
almost directly? What's the good of Latin and Greek if you are going
to chuck it almost at once? And mathematics, too! What use are they if
the end is near? It's all very well to cram, but what's the good of it
when you know you won't survive to eat the plum pudding?
There's no news. There's never any news. SMITH Minor has got his
cap for football, and SNOOKS Major is going up to Oxford instead of
Cambridge. What does it matter when the beef is so tough that you
might sole your boots with it? And as for the mutton! Well, all I can
say is, that it isn't fit for human food, and the authorities should
be told about it. As for me, I am passing away. No one will ever see
me more. For all that, you might send me a hamper. Your affectionate
friend,