(_A Fairy Tale of Anglo-Russian Origin._)
ONCE upon a time there was a feeble little Ailment called
"Cold-in-the-head," which was treated in the most contemptuous fashion by
its relations. The nearest of its kith and kin--Measles and
Scarlatina--absolutely laughed when its name was mentioned, and scarcely
recognised it as a connection. So Cold-in-the-head had rather a bad time of
it generally.
One day the feeble little Ailment was wandering aimlessly about in search
of a resting-place, when it came upon an enormous establishment thronged
with thousands of working-men. When the _employés_ are described as
"working-men," it is not, however, quite accurate, for at that moment they
were not working.
"Why are you idle?" sneezed out little Cold-in-the-head in a tone of
compassion.
"Because," replied one of the _employés_, rather gruffly, "there is nothing
to do. If you want further information, you had better inquire at that
office."
And the man pointed to a door bearing the legend, "Editor's Room." The poor
little Ailment entered the apartment, and found a Gentleman seated in front
of a desk covered with papers. The Gentleman was staring before him, and
the ink in his pen had dried up.
"What do you want?" asked the Gentleman. "And why don't you shut the door
behind you?"
"I should cease to exist without draughts," explained the poor little
Ailment, "and please don't speak roughly to me, as I want to help you."
"You help me!" exclaimed the Editor--for the Gentleman was an Editor. "How
can you do that?"
"I think I can give you a subject."
"You are very welcome if you can do that," was the reply, "as in this dead
season of the year ideas are as scarce as coals; nay scarcer. But surely,
didn't you do something for the Press ages ago?"
"That was in the 'forties;' but I am quite different now."
Then the little Ailment related to the Editor stories of Russia, and the
East, and all sorts of wonderful things.
"Well," murmured the Editor, after some consideration, "I think you may be
useful, after all, if we are helped by the Doctors."
* * * * *
"What a fuss they are making about this new rival of ours!" said Measles,
angrily.
"Too absurd!" commented Scarlatina, in a tone of annoyance.
Then there was a grand procession. First came Correspondents, then
Interviewed Physicians, then the General Public. It was a sight that had
never been seen before. In the midst of the excitement an Ailment appeared.
"Why, bless me!" cried Measles. "Only fancy!"
"Can I believe my eyes?" shouted Scarlatina. "Why, it's poor little
Cold-in-the-head, that no one used to care a jot about six months ago!"
"Silence!" said the Ailment, with great dignity. "You must learn to treat
me with the respect due to my exalted station. And please don't call me
'Cold-in-the-head,' for I am known as 'The Russian Influenza!'"
Then the Ailment turned towards _Mr. Punch_, who (as was his wont) was
smiling, and bade him do homage.
"Not a bit of it," exclaimed the Sage of Fleet Street, raising a glass of
Ammoniated Tincture of Quinine to his lips, and quaffing merrily a
teaspoonful. "I defy you! You are puffed up with conceit, my poor little
Illness, and when, in a few weeks' time, we have another sensation to talk
and think about, you will sink back into your native obscurity."
And _Mr. Punch_ (as the event will prove) was--as he always is--entirely
right!
* * * * *
AT THE PORTE ST. MARTIN.--If there were ever any question as to the genius
of SARA BERNHARDT, she has now settled it by appearing as _Jeanne d'Arc_,
and showing us what she is Maid of. By the way, as of course she wears
golden or auburn hair, _Jeanne d'Arc_ must appear as _Jeanne_ Light.
Irreverent scoffers may say this is historically correct, as from their
point of view _Joan_ was rather light-headed. Of course, _Joan_ is coming
over to London. Why not to Mr. HARE'S Theatre, and finish the evening with
a prime Garrick Stake.
* * * * *
[Illustration: MR. PUNCH'S EXHIBITION OF GRAND "OLD
MASTERS."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "ALL ALIVE!"
_Cheesemonger._ "WHAT IS IT, MY DEAR?"
_Little Girl._ "OH, MOTHER'S SENT BACK THIS PIECE O'
CHEESE, 'CAUSE FATHER SAYS IF WE WANTS ANY BAIT WHEN
HE'S A GOIN' A FISHIN', HE CAN DIG 'EM UP IN OUR
GARDEN!"]
* * * * *