No, _I_ ain't bin nowhere partickler.... Settled? yus, it's all settled
'bout me goin' ter the kerntry.... To-morrer? no, I ain't goin'
_to-morrer_.... Nex' week? not as I _knows_ on.... You wanter know sech
a _lot_, you do!... If I _do_ tell yer, you'll on'y go an' larf....
Well, I ain't goin' at all--_now_ I 'ope you're pleased.... What's the
good o' bein' _sorry?_... Oh, I don't keer much, I don't.... Set down
on this step alonger me, then, and don' you go sayin' nuffink, or I'll
stop tellin' yer.... You remember me goin' in yes'day arternoon to 'ear
what the lidy said? Well, when I got in, I 'eard 'er s'y, "Yus, it'll
be a great disappintment fur 'IM, pore boy," she sez, "arter
lookin' forward to it an' all; but it can't be 'elped." An' Muvver, she
sez, "'Is Farver'll be sorry, too; it done JIMMY ser much good
larst time. 'E can't pay not more nor 'arf-a-crownd a week towards it,
but he can manage that, bein' in work jes now." But the lidy sez, "It's
this w'y," she sez, "it costis us neelly arf a suffering over what the
parints pays fur each child, and we ain't got the fun's fur to send
more 'n a few, 'cos the Public don' suscroibe ser much as they might,"
she sez. "An' so this year we're on'y sending children as is delikit,
an' reelly _wants_ a chinge." So yer see, I ain't a goin'. I dunno as
I'm delikit; but I _do_ want the kerntry _orful_ bad, I do. I wish I
never 'adn't bin there at all, 'cos then preps I shouldn' mind. An' yit
I'm gled I bin, too. I dreamt about it larst night, FLORRIE,
I did. I was a-settin' on this 'ere step, sime as I am now, an' it
was 'ot an' stoiflin', like it is; an' all of a suddink I see Mr.
KENNISTER'S cart wiv the grey 'orse turn into our court an'
pull up hoppersite, an' _Bob Rumble_ 'e was a-drivin' on it. An 'e sez
"Jump up!" he sez, "and I'll tike yer back to Mr. DELVES'S
cottidge." And I sez, "May FLORRIE come too." An 'he sez,
"Yus, both on yer." So up we gits, an' we was droivin' along the lanes,
an' I was showin' yer the squills an' the stagses, an' jes as we come
to the turn where yer kin see the cottidge----Well, I don' remember no
more on it. But it was a noice dream so fur as I got wiv it, an' if I
'adn't never bin there, I couldn' ha' dreamt it, _could_ I, eh? An',
like as not, I'll dream the rest on it anuvver night.... An' you must
try an' dream your share, too, FLORRIE. It'll be a'most like
bein' in the kerntry in a sort o' w'y fur both on us, won't it?
THE MORAL.--The offices of the Children's Country Holidays
Fund are at 10, Buckingham Street, Strand, and contributions should be
made payable to the Hon. Treasurer.
* * * * *
"Now I'm set up!" as the first page in type observed to his companion
pages in MS.
* * * * *
"RULE, 'BRITANNYER'!"
_Being a loyal letter from Mr. Jeames, at Cowes Regatta, to Mary in
Mayfair._
DEAR MARY,--"_Rule, Britannyer!_" To that sentiment I'm partial,
As there isn't not one like it, not to make a man feel martial,
Pattryottic, and all that, dear. But at this serblime conjunction--
Of ryalties and regattas--wy I hutters it with hunction.
Rule, _Britannyer!_ As you'll understand I mean the Ryal yot!
Hah! Haitch-Har-Haitch--Eving bless him!--knows hexactly wot is wot
In the way of yots and racing; wich I'm free to own, my dear,
As I _don't_. And moresomever it do make me faint and queer
When I think of Hengland's 'Ope aboard that skittish, sloping thing,
As looks to my shore-going eyes like a white bird _all wing_.
Well, I own I'm not a Wiking; all _I_ want of the blue sea
Is a kipper for my breakfust, and a winkle with my tea.
But the Guv'nor, _he_'s a topper at the nortickle. Great Scott!
'Ow he _do_ put on the Brayvo 'Icks when once aboard a yot!
He's a puffeck pocket Neptune, wich a chubby little chap,
Looks perticularly fetchin' in a trotty yotting cap.
Then he loves the swells--like I do--and it's sweet to 'ear him tork
Of his pal the P. of W. and his chum the DOOK O' YORK.
He's just like a locomotive on the everlastin' puff,
He enjys hisself like fifty, and he's never 'ad enuff:
I _do_ like to 'ear him patter to the cumpany ashore,
He keeps his friends a-bustin', and the table in a roar.
I on'y wish, dear MARY, I could phonygraff his chat,
And kinettyscope his haction; you would roar all round your 'at.
The Cowes Week _would_ 'ave been rippin' if it 'adn't bin for rain;--
(As was bad for Ryal Princes, and likeways for Messrs. PAIN).
And them tuppenny-apenny "trippers," as did ought to be kep out
When hus gentry is a-swarmin', and there's Ryalties about.
The Solent should be cordon'd hoff for Hemperors once a year,
For a mix o' Margit manners, and Salvationists, and beer,
Ain't no welcome for a Kyser, no, nor yet a Shazydar,
As demmocrycy is gettin' too permiskus like, by far.
A orty OWEN ZOLLERN didn't ought to be mixed hup
With Bank 'Olidays and bikes, when _he_'s a runnin' for a Cup.
'Tis his seventh Solent wisit, and things went a trifle rum;
And if he took the Himperial 'Ump and nex' year _didn't come_,
W'y it wouldn't be serprisink, and hus BULLS, and Cowes, would suffer.
Whate'er that HEMPEROR _may_ be, he ain't no idle duffer!
The Guv'nor, he hadmires him most tremenjus; so do _hi_.
It is suthink a'most touchin' for to see him, smart and spry
In his simple yotting costoom, with his snowy cap an' ducks,
A-taking it so heasy, though he'd none the best of lucks.
And his hironclads!!! Great Gumbo--as the Guv'nor loves to say--
They do not spare the powder, and if this is but their play,
_I_ don't want to see'em _workin'_. The young HEMPEROR whisked about--
With our Guv'nor on his track, too, don't you make no sort of doubt--
His hork-heye--the Guv's--wos heverywhere. He watchin' each puff an' pop.
From the scrubbin' of a binnycle or the twirlin' of a mop,
To polishin' the funnel-tops with rottenstone and ile,
Wich he said he watched each mornin', Guv wos in it all the while.
He fair shaddered the young KYSER. And the story he'd reherse,
With a eloquence and hunction quite like droppin' into werse.
And he always soots the haction to the word in sech a way,
That when fairly on the cackle he's as good as any play.
But, O, MARY! it wos orkerd, and yumillyhating too,
When our yot--her name's the _Polywog_--to git a better view,
Shoved 'erself a bit too forrad, and, amidst a general skoff,
Wos tackled by a snortin' tug, and coolly carted hoff!
Guv swore he'd tell his pal the Dook but p'r'aps that wos his fun;
He also said he'd arsk him why the _Meteor_ didn't run.
Owsomever "_Rule, Britannyer_" is quite good enuff for _me_
(Though the "_Hail, Sir_" 'ad a hinnings). I am nuts on Germany,
But when Haitch-Har-Haitch wos winnin', why I felt a bustin' throb
Swell this buzzum, for I thinks, thinks I, "Old England's on the job!"
Wich to see _her_ rule the waves, dear, is the hackmy of _my_ dreams,
So no more at present, MARY, from your fellow-servant,