"'Give 'em to me, you idjut!' says Nigger, and he plunked one neatly by Red Liz's ribs. She started, and Nigger plants another one behind 'er. Then she put 'er 'ead down and tore along like mad. She passed three, got level with Coughdrop, passed 'er, an' thirty yards from home was neck with Gentle Maggot. Both Jocks were whooping like mad, but just as everyone was swearing it was going to be a dead-heat, I thumped Nigger hard on the back an' yelled out, 'We've won!'
"Spruggy 'ad jerked Red Liz's head down just at the post, an' she 'ad won by an ear!"
"Well, that was good enough, wasn't it?" said Jimmy, as Docker finished his narrative with a mournful downward inflexion of voice.
"It would 'ave been," replied Docker; "only Nigger 'ad put the ticket in 'is mouth while 'e lighted the cracker, an' when I thumped 'im on the back it startled 'im, an'--'_e swallered it_."
Hazards beset her social groove; Dilemmas rise--she wriggles free; Landslip or earthquake cannot move Her imperturbability.
Where 'er she goes her presence thrills, And in her youthfulness there shines The everlasting of our hills, The evergreenness of our pines.
Hung in a poise that knows no law The kestrels watch above the trees, But never was kestrel yet that saw The half that Mrs. Hawksbee sees.
Rosy and smiling mid her furs Along the Mall her way she trips With subalterns whose worship stirs The cynic swiftness of her lips.
When Jakko-wards her rickshaw sweeps, The monkeys scamper o'er the grass, And breathlessly each rascal peeps To see the Queen of mischief pass.
Our Viceroys know the call of Fate; Our Generals pass nor question why; Councils dissolve and Staffs migrate, But Mrs. Hawksbee shall not die.
"So far from the wage-earning classes being shown the necessity for a revival in our industry, the Prime Minister talks nonsense about 'removing the sceptre of unemployment.'"--_Morning Paper_.
This will comfort those who were afraid that it was permanently enthroned.
[Illustration: _Small Brother (to rejected lover)._ "BUT JOHN, DIDN'T YOU TELL HER YOU'D PLAYED FOR ESSEX?"]
In a distant country, at a remote epoch, was born of humble parents a poet. "Born" advisedly, since the poet is always born, not made. Even before he could write he composed little poems, which he would recite aloud. The simple pleasures of the poor, among whom he grew up--intoxication, pugilism, funeral merry-makings--furnished the themes of his verse.