DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I suppose it must be conceded that practical jokes
have not the vogue that they once enjoyed. No longer do you discover
some fine morning that the street in which you live is blockaded
with furniture vans, all endeavouring to deliver furniture you don't
require and never heard of before, while your staircase is a mass of
flowers and fruit constantly increasing upon you and threatening
to smother you with their amount no less than with their scent. It
would gradually appear that the deliveries both of the flowers and
the furniture were being executed in accordance with the orders of
one of your friends, and that you had to grin and bear it as best
you might. I cannot say that the victim or the general public, when
they heard of it, looked upon it with any excess of enthusiasm.
Anyhow, practical jokes have gone out.
Yet there is a kind of practical joke which, so far as I know, has
never been played upon anybody, and which, if it wore played,
might provoke a considerable volume of laughter and no small
inconvenience. I have schemed it out and venture to submit the plan
to you.
My idea is to take some weekly magazine which caters either for some
special trade or amusement or pursuit. Let us imagine it to be _The
Chicken Run_, with which is incorporated _The Fowls' Guardian_. I am
entitled to assume that most of Mr. Punch's readers are acquainted
with this bright and lively feathered journal. My plan is to get
together some bold spirits, to capture the editor and his staff,
and to hold them in a comfortable but rigorous imprisonment for one
week; to take possession of the editorial office, and then to set to
work to transform the contents of the paper. I foresee the amazement
of the faithful readers of _The Chicken Run_, on being informed, in
the column headed "Hints to Beginners," that Mr. LLOYD GEORGE'S pet
Leghorn cockerel has developed a surprising taste for latchkeys, and
recently swallowed two of them, while Mr. ASQUITH'S Buff Orpington
pullet has taken to following him about like a dog and roosting
on his bed-rail. Then there would be a breezy editorial article
designed to prove that poultry had come out of the war with a much
enhanced reputation, owing to the loyal part they had played in
assisting the FOOD-CONTROLLER.
Further, there would be special articles proving, for instance, that
champagne is the one drink on which all breeds of chickens increase
and multiply their production of eggs, especially if hot caviare
is afterwards administered in large bowls. Then there would be the
first chapters of an enthralling serial whose plot revolved round
the love-story of Sir Robert Wyandotte and Lady Cecilia Buttercup--a
literary effort of unparalleled brilliancy due to the genius of a
new novelist who preferred to be known as the Red Rover of Rhode
Island. And so on and so on. If you think the scheme is feasible,
let me hear from you and I will begin to get my team of villains
together.
Yours faithfully,