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WHY THE DUES WERE THEY DONE AWAY WITH?--Under the beneficent influence
of the early coal dews--subsequently spelt coal dues--which have
existed from the earliest times, City and Metropolitan Improvements
have sprung up into existence. Now, thanks to ignorant, but
well-meaning County Councillors, the coal dues being abolished, up
goes the price of coal, up go the rates, and there is no surplus
for improvement of any sort. If those ancient days of coal dues were
considered "hard times," then sing we, in chorus, "Hard times, come
again once more!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: PRIG-STICKING.
_Little Prigson_. "OH! AS FOR GRIGSON, HE'S DISTINCTLY THE MOST
OBJECTIONABLE LITTLE PRIG IN ALL ENGLAND; BUT HIS SISTAH'S _QUITE_ THE
NICEST GIRL I EVER MET."
_Aunt Eliza_. "DEAR ME! WHAT SWEEPING ASSERTIONS! YOU _MIGHT_ HAVE
HAD THE DECENCY JUST TO MAKE THE TRADITIONAL EXCEPTION IN FAVOUR OF
_PRESENT COMPANY_!"
_Cousin Maud_. "YES; IN _BOTH_ CASES, YOU KNOW!"]
* * * * *
"A HAPPY NEW YEAR!"
_Mr. Punch, loquitur_:--
A Happy New Year? I should think so, my boy,
Tossed thus in the arms of your PUNCHY right cheerily,
'Midst all that a youngster should love and enjoy,
At least, you're beginning most merrily.
Under the Mistletoe Bough
You make a good start, anyhow.
With a kiss from the lips that can never betray,
There's many a girl would be greeted _that_ way!
You're welcome, my lad! It is _Punch's_ old style
To hail with stout heart all such annual new-comers;
In winters of chill discontent he'll still smile,
_His_ warmth seems to turn 'em to Summers!
Under the Mistletoe Bough
All doldrums are bosh and bow-wow.
He doesn't mix rue in his big New Year Bowl,
Whose aim is to cheer up the national soul.
_Sursum corda_! That motto's the best of the bunch;
Make it yours, young New Year, and 'twill keep up your pecker.
Giving way to the Blues, you may take it from _Punch_,
Never helped one in heart or exchequer,
Under the Mistletoe Bough
You cannot do better, I vow,
Than make that same maxim your boyhood's first rule,
As your very first tip in your very first school.
Don't look like a pedagogue, do I, my lad?
And indeed I am not an Orbilius Plagosus,
Like him who made juvenile FLACCUS so sad.
How well the Venusian knows us!
Under the Mistletoe Bough
_He_ never kissed maid, but somehow
Our Dickensish Season he seemed to divine
With his fondness for friendship, and laughter, and wine.
No, boy, I don't greatly believe in the birch,
(Though sometimes my _bâton_ must play--on rogues' shoulders.)
Love's rather too apt to be left in the lurch
By Orbilian smiters and scolders.
Under the Mistletoe Bough
A kiss is best treatment, I trow.
A salute from the lips of your _Punch_ you'll not spurn,
And the young guests around you shall each take a turn.
The outlook, my lad, seems a little bit drear,
There are clouds and storm-shadows about the horizon,
But--well, you're a chubby and rosy Young Year
As ever your PUNCHY set eyes on.
Under the Mistletoe Bough
You look mighty kissable--now.
So here goes another, for luck like, my dear,
As we wish everybody A Happy New Year!
* * * * *