(_A Conversation a la Mode._)
_He._ So very glad to see you. (_Aside._) Hope she won't shut me up,
she's so sharp!
_She._ Quite pleased to have met. (_Aside._) Can't stand much of him,
he's so stupid!
_He._ I suppose when you were in town you went to the Academy?
_She._ Yes, and saw all the pictures--and didn't like them.
_He._ And went to the Opera?
_She._ Yes, every night--and am tired of talking about it.
_He._ And of course you went to Henley?
_She._ Yes, and to the Eton and Harrow Match, and to Ascot, and to
Wimbledon to see the Lawn Tennis finals.
_He._ But perhaps you never went to the House of Commons?
_She._ Oh, yes, I did--on the Terrace, and also to the Ladies'
Gallery. The rows were most amusing--saw them all.
_He._ And did you go to many parties?
_She._ To every party of any consequence, and all the really nice
dinners.
_He._ Were you at the Royal Wedding?
_She._ Oh, don't talk of that. The subject is quite exhausted. (_After
a pause._) Pray, have you no conversation?
_He._ Well, I don't know. I suppose you went to church this morning,
and heard the Dean preach?
_She._ Oh, I really must beg your pardon. If you can't find anything
better to talk about on a Sunday than the points of a sermon you had
far better say nothing at all.
[_Scene closes in upon an unbroken silence._
* * * * *
[Illustration: NEW KING COAL.
(_A new Mining-Capitalist Version of an old Nursery Rhyme,
dedicated and commended to the thoughtful consideration of the
colliers on strike in Northumberland and Durham._)]
[Putting it in the form of a conundrum, _Mr. Punch_ would ask
the Colliers who may read this rhyme the following question,
the answer to which may throw a light upon the meaning of New
King COAL'S jubilant doggerel ditty:--
"When prices rise--even in the midst of the Dog Days--and the
output of first-class coal falls, who reaps the advantage of
the enhanced value and readier sale of accumulated stocks of
small and slaggy 'rubbish'?"]
O our New King COAL
Is an artful old soul,
And an artful old soul is he;
And a jolly good Strike
Is a game he must like--
When it pulls in the L _s._ _d._
He calls for his "weed" and he calls for his "fizz,"
And he calls for his--Fiddle-de-dee!
Every fiddler has his own little fiddle,
And a very fine fiddle has he.
"L _s._ _d._, L _s._ _d._," sings King COAL, "Fiddle-de-dee!
Oh! an opportune Strike is the thing for me!"
O, there's none so rare
As can compare
With King COAL and _his_ Fiddle-de-dee!
* * * * *