(_From the Story of a Much-considered Nothing._)
[Illustration]
THE Tramp was distinctly one of the Unemployed. He had no money, no
friends, no home. He had obtained some work a short while since.
The labour, of course, had been unskilled, and then there had come a
strike, and the Tramp and his mates had turned out with the rest. The
Tramp was a little annoyed, as he had been fairly satisfied to earn
bread and butter and meat, and above all, and before all, beer. But
the leaders of the strike had satisfied him that it was entirely for
his benefit. That as the Tramp could not work up to their standard, it
was their duty to work down to his--and yet get paid at the same
rate of wages belonging to the higher scale. This seemed to the Tramp
pleasant enough. But while he waited, he starved; so he was not sure
that the notion of the strike was so excellent after all. But then his
brain might have been clearer--it had not been fed (in common with the
rest of his body) for several days.
So the Tramp--weary, ragged, and tanned--wandered to the spot where
Labour was holding her Congress. The last meeting had been held, and
the final squabble settled when he reached his destination. There
were a couple of well-fed, healthy-looking men, dressed in good strong
broad-cloth, standing outside the meeting-place. They regarded the
Tramp with some surprise.
"Surely not a Member?" said the first.
"And of course not a Delegate?" hinted the second.
The tramp shook his head. He knew nothing about Members and Delegates.
"I thought not," said Number One. "All our Members and Delegates are
quite of respectable appearance."
"Got nothing to do," replied the Tramp, laconically.
"Why don't you try the Colonies?" asked Number Two. "There has been an
immense fall in the value of land in Australia. You would get it cheap
just now. Why not emigrate? Why not acquire some land?"
"I don't want land, I want food!" returned the Tramp.
"Well, when we have a vacancy, you shall become one of us. We eat,
drink, and talk; but we don't work. It's the best employment out." And
the Tramp found it so.
* * * * *
'ARRIET ON LABOUR.
[Illustration]
Dear POLLY,--These are pooty times, and don't you make no herror.
They gives _me_ twists, though I am called the Tottenham Court
Road Terror,
Along of quantities of pluck, and being such a dasher;
But now the papers bring hus news as spiles yer mornin' rasher.
"Labour is looking up, you bet!" So sez SAM JONES, our neighbour.
"I'm glad to 'ear it, SAM," sez I. "But, SAMMY, wot _is_ Labour?"
SAM gives his greasy curl a twist, and looks seven ways for Sunday.
Bit bosky, SAM, thick in the clear, as usual on Saint Monday.
"Labour!" I sez, "Oh, shoo fly, SAM! You 'orny-'anded codgers--
_Your_ palm's as soft as putty, SAM--are reglar Artful Dodgers.
Yer Labour, with a capital L, looks mighty fine in print, SAM,
But _work_ with a small w--ah! I see yer takes the 'int, SAM."
That shut _him_ up, the lolloper! He know'd I'd took his measure,
And squelching 'umbugs always do give me pertikler pleasure.
JONES sorter set 'is cap at me; I earn good money _I_ do;
But love as follows L.S.D. 's all fol-der-riddle-dido!
"Bashing a knobstick's ripping fun, no doubt--for them as bashes;
But this here new petroleum game won't work." Here JONES'S lashes--
They're stubby, ginger, sly-fox ones--got kinder tangle-twinkle.
I 'ad my eye on 'im, the worm, while working out my winkle.
(I'd got a pennorth in a bag; they're things to which I'm partial.)
"We _must_ bust up Mernopoly," sez SAM, a-looking martial.
"The 'Oly Cause o' Labour carn't be stayed by trifles, 'ARRIET!
JUDAS must 'ang, 'twere weakness to show mercy to ISCARIOT!"
"Bit o' yer platform gag," sez I. "You keep it for the club, SAM.
'Twon't comfort me, nor your old mother toiling at the tub, SAM.
The 'Oly Cause o' Labour, SAM 's, a splendid thing to spout about,
But it's a thing as skulkers makes _the_ most tremenjus rout about."
I'm only just a work-girl, POLL, one of the larky drudges
As swarm acrost the bridge at night and 'omeward gaily trudges,
A tootling "_Ta-ra-boom-de-ay_," a chaffing of the fellers,
And flourishing their feathered 'ats bright reds, and blues and
yellers.
As vulgar as they make 'em, POLL. Leastways the chaps whose trade is
To write and dror in Comics, call hus "anythink but ladies."
Ladies? O lor! On thirteen bob a week, less sundry tanners
For fines, it's none so easy, POLL, to keep up style and manners.
But work-girls _work_, and that is more than SAM and _'is_
sort--drat 'em!
When I see shirks platforming, POLL, I'm longing to get at 'em.
When Women's Rights include the charnce of gettin' a fair 'earing
For Women's Wrongs--wy then there'll be less bashing and less
beering.
As for the Vote--well, _I_ dunno. It seems pertikler curious
That politics makes a man a hass, they drives the fellers furious.
If Votes sets women by the ears, as they does men, my winky!
I guess 'twill make domestic life even more crabbed and kinky.
Wy _my_ young man--you know 'im, POLL--whose temper's real milky,
Whose 'art is soft as 'is merstarche--and that is simply silky--
Got that rouged up on polling day, along of a young Tory
As called him names. I 'ad to 'ug 'im off to stop the gory.
The chap was in the 'atting line, and thought BALFOUR a 'ero;
Whereas my MICK 'as Hirish blood, and calls 'im "Niminy Nero."
I don't a bit know what they meant, but if them votes should send
_hus_
As fairly off our chumps as men, the shine _will_ be tremendous!
We _shall_ 'ave a fair beano then! Well, I'm not nuts on voting.
Your 'ARRIET'S lay is--better pay! _That's_ not wot they're
promoting,
Them spouting Labour Candidates. Of women's work they're jealous;
_They_ light the fire to warm _hus_? Bah! they're only good at
bellows!
Their Eight 'Ours Day, and such-like rot, gives me the 'ump, dear
POLLY--
Wouldn't some women like it, though? Well, 'oping for it's folly,
Like longing for a seal-skin _sweet_, or a Marquige for a lover.
Man's work may be too long sometimes, a woman's _never_ over.
Leastways, a _married_ woman's, POLL. MICK'S 'ot on me to "settle,"
But eighteen bob a week--his screw--ain't much to bile the kettle;
And I ain't 'ad my fling, not yet. MICK'S reglar smart and sparky,
But--when a woman's fairly spliced, it's U. P. with the larky.
And oh my, POLL, I _do_ love larks! Theayters, 'ops, and houtings
Warm a girl's 'art a rare sight more than politics and spoutings.
MICK says he 'as his eye upon a "flat," neat and commojus.
MICK'S a good sort, but tied for life to toil--at eighteen? Ojus!
'Ard Labour, and for life, without the hoption! That's a sentence
As 'ot as 'ARRY 'ORKINS'S, and no place for repentance.
Ah, POLL, my girl, a woman's work _is_ Labour, and no skulking.
_It_ must go on though yer old man's out of a job or sulking.
Mothers can't strike, or unionise, or make demonsterations.
The bloke 'as got the bulge on them. Now girls in situations,
Like you and me, POLL, _'as_ a chance of larky nights and jolly
days,
Along of arter bizness 'ours, and, now and then, the 'olidays.
But 'twixt the cradle and the tub, the old man and 'er needle,
A married woman's tied up tight. Yus, MICK may spoon and wheedle,
But when a woman's got four kids, bad 'ealth, and toke for tiffin,
Then marriage _is_ a failure, POLL, I give yer the straight griffin.
The goodies slate us shop-girls sharp, say married life or sarvice
Are more _respectabler_. Oh lor! Just look at poor JANE JARVIS!
She were a dasher, JENNY were, 'er fringe and feathers took it,
And now--'er only 'ope's that BILL may tire of 'er and 'ook it.
You know that purple hostrich plume she were so proud of, POLLY!
I bought it on 'er for five bob larst week, and it looks jolly
In my new 'at. But as she sat a snivellin' o'er that dollar,
Thinks I if this is married life 'ARRIET'S not game for collar.
She looked so suety and sad, and all them golden tresses
She was so proud of when it ran to smart new 'ats and dresses,
Was all tight knotted round 'er knob like oakum on a mop, POLL.
Her bright blue eyes in mourning, and--well, there, I couldn't
stop, POLL.
Labour? Well yus, the best of hus must work; yer carn't git quit
of it;
And you and me, POLL, like the rest, must do our little bit of it.
But oh, I loves my _freedom_, POLL, my hevenings hoff is 'eaven;
But wives and slavies ain't allowed even one day in seven.
Jigger the men! SAM spouts and shouts about the 'Onest Worker.
That always means a Man, of course--_he's_ a smart Man, the shirker!
But when a Man lives upon his wife, and skulks around his diggings,
Who is the "'Onest Worker" then?--Yours truly,
'ARRIET 'IGGINGS.
* * * * *