"You may be an 'owling cad;
Or be gowing to the bad;
Or a hoary centenarian, or empty-headed lad;
Or the merest trifle mad--
If there's rhino to be had,
Why, a modern girl will tyke you--yes, and only be too glad!"
As she carolled out this charming ditty in her thin high voice, TIME
positively shivered in his stall, "Are _all_ the girls like that in
Seriocomix?" he moaned. "I trust not."
"It seems the fashion to assume so here, at any rate," said _Mr.
Punch_, not without a hazy recollection of having heard very similar
sentiments in Music Halls much nearer home than Seriocomix. "The young
woman is probably an authority on the subject. Are you off already?"
"Yes," said TIME, as he made for the exit. "I think she is going to
sing again presently. Come along!"
At the next Music Hall they were just in time to hear the announcement
of a new Patriotic Song, and old TIME, who had in his day seen great
and noble deeds accomplished by men who loved and were proud of their
Fatherland, was disposed to congratulate both himself and the audience
on the choice of topic.
Only, as the song went on, he seemed dissatisfied somehow, as if he
had expected some loftier and more exalted strain. And yet it was a
high-spirited song, too, and told the Seriocomicans what fine fellows
they were, and how naturally superior to the inhabitants of all other
planets, while the chorus ran as follows:--
"Yes, we never stand a foreigner's dictation!
No matter if we're wrong or if we're right;
We're a breed of good old bulldogs as a nation,
And we never stop to bark before we bite!"
And then the singer, a fat-necked man, in a kind of military uniform,
drew a sword and struck an attitude, amidst red fire, which aroused
vociferous enthusiasm.
TIME seemed to be getting restless again, so they moved on once. more,
and presently entered a hall where they found a stout lady with a
powdered face and extremely short skirts, about to sing a pathetic
song, which had been expressly written to suit her talents.
She began in a quavering treble that was instinct with intense
feeling:--
"Under the dysies to rest I have lyed him;
My little cock-sparrer so fythful and tyme!
And the duckweed he loved so is blooming besoide him,
But I clean out his cyge every d'y just the syme!
For it brings him before me so sorcy and sproightly,
As with seed and fresh water his glorsis I fill:
Though the poor little tyle which he waggled so lytely
Loys under the dysies all stiffened and still!"
--And then, to a subdued _obbligato_ upon a bird-whistle, came the
touching refrain:
"Yes, I hear him singing 'Tweet,' so melodious and sweet!
Till his shadder comes and flits about the room. 'Tweet-tweet-tweet!'
All my sorrer I forget. For I have the forncy yet,
That he twitters while he's loyin' in his tomb--'Tweet-tweet!'
Yes, he twitters to me softly from his tomb!"
_Mr. Punch_ observed his elder attentively during this plaintive
ditty, but there was no discernible moisture in TIME's hard old eyes,
though among the rest of the audience noses were being freely blown.
"Well," he said, "it may be very touching and even elevating, for
anything I know--but it's not my notion of cheerful entertainment. I'm
off!"
"I should like," said TIME, rather wistfully, as they proceeded
to visit yet another establishment, "yes, I _should_ like to hear
something _comic_ before the evening is over."
"Now is your opportunity, then," said _Mr. Punch_, taking his seat and
inspecting the programme, "for I observe that the gentleman who is to
appear next is described as a 'Mastodon Mirth-moving Mome.'"
"And does that mean that he is funny?" inquired TIME, hopefully.
"If it doesn't, I don't know what it _does_ mean," replied _Mr.
Punch_, as the Mastodon entered.
His mere appearance was calculated to provoke--and did provoke--roars
of laughter, though TIME only gazed the more sadly at him. He had
coarse black hair falling about his ears, a white face, and a crimson
nose; he wore a suit of dingy plaid, a battered hat, and long-fingered
thread gloves. And he sang, very slowly and dolefully, this
side-splitting ballad:--
"We met at the corner, Marire and me.
Quite permiscuous! Who'd ha' thought of it?
She took and invited me 'ome to tea;
Quite permiscuous! Who'd ha' thought of it?
I sat in the parler along with her,
Tucking into the eggs and the bread and but-tèr,--
When in come her Par with the kitching po-kèr!
_Quite_ permiscuous! _Who'd_ ha' thought of it?"