Mr. Punch's Country Life - LightNovelsOnl.com
You're reading novel online at LightNovelsOnl.com. Please use the follow button to get notifications about your favorite novels and its latest chapters so you can come back anytime and won't miss anything.
_Brown._ "Oh--er--er--let's see----Oh, confound it!--er--er--_make a bonfire!_"]
[Ill.u.s.tration: A VILLAGE FIASCO.--_Gifted Amateur (concluding pet card trick)._ "Now, ladies and gentlemen, you have seen the pack of cards burnt before your eyes, and the ashes placed inside the box, which mysteriously transformed itself into a rabbit, which, in turn, disappeared into s.p.a.ce. I will now ask this gentleman to name the card he selected, when it will at once appear in my hand. Now, sir, what card did you select from the pack?" _Giles (who has been following the trick most intently)._ "Blessed if I recollect!"]
[Ill.u.s.tration: AFTER THE FIRE
_Rustic_ (_to burnt-out Farmer_). "We r--r--rescued the b--b--beer zur!"]
LOCAL PECULIARITIES
At Bilston they always. .h.i.t the right nail on the head.
At Bolton it is impossible for those who run up ticks to bolt off.
At Broadstairs the accommodation for stout visitors is unrivalled.
At Colchester they are all "natives."
At Coventry, strange to say, they can furnish no statistics of the number of persons who have been sent there.
At Kidderminster there is certain to be something fresh on the _tapis_.
At Liverpool they are extremely orthodocks.
If you write to Newcastle (Staffords.h.i.+re) take care to under-Lyne the address.
At Newmarket they take particular interest in the question of races.
At Portsmouth everything is s.h.i.+p-shape.
At Rye you will meet none but Rye faces.
At Sheffield you will always find a knife and fork laid for you.
[Ill.u.s.tration: "A GOOD WIT WILL MAKE USE OF ANYTHING"
_Shakespeare, Henry the Fourth._
SCENE--_A Pit Village._ TIME--_Sat.u.r.day Night._
_Barber_ (_to bibulous customer_). "Now, sir, if you don't hold your head back, I can't shave you!"
_Pitman._ "A'well, hinney, just cut me hair!"]
WHAT OUR ARCHITECT HAS TO PUT UP WITH.--_Our Architect_ (_Spotting Sixteenth Century gables_). "That's an old bit of work, my friend!"
"Oi, sir, yeu be roight, theer, that you be!"
_O. A._ (_keen for local tradition_). "You don't know exactly _how_ old, I suppose?"
"Well, noa, sir; but old it be! Whoi, I's knowed it myself these _noine_ years!"
OUR VILLAGE INDUSTRIAL COMPEt.i.tION.--_Husband_ (_just home from the City_). "My angel!--crying!--Whatever's the matter?"
_Wife._ "They've--awarded me--prize medal"--(_sobbing_)--"f' my sponge cake!"
_Husband_ (_soothingly_). "And I'm quite sure it deserv----"
_Wife_ (_hysterically_). "Oh--but--'t said--'twas--for the best specimen--o' concrete!"
_Our Choir-master_ (_after lamentable failure on part of Pupil_).
"Confound it! I thought you said you could 'Read at sight'?"
_Pupil._ "So I can. But not _first_ sight."
A TRULY RURAL DEAN.--The Dean of Ferns.
[Ill.u.s.tration: OUR FeTE
_Village Worthy._ "It ain't so bad for Slowcombe, mum; but, lor' bless 'ee! 'tain't nothing to what they 'ud do in London!"]
[Ill.u.s.tration:
_Village Doctor._ "And what do you intend to make of this little man, Mrs. Brisket?"
_Proud Mother._ "Butcher, sir. 'E's bound to be a butcher. Why, 'e 's that fond o' animals, we can 'ardly keep 'im out o' the slaughter-'ouse!"]
