Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, February 6, 1892   By: Various

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 102.

February 6, 1892.

[Illustration: "A GOOD STAYER."

THE DEALER SAID, "THE MARE COULD STAY FOR EVER." SHE SEEMED INCLINED TO DO SO WHEN JONES WISHED TO BE AFTER THE HOUNDS.]

RECEIPT AGAINST INFLUENZA.

DEAR SIR, I send you this gratis. It is for everybody's benefit,

Yours. GEORGE GUZZLETON, X.M.D.

P.S. I give " Coenæ prescriptionem " only, as the " Prescrip: prandialis " can be taken out of this with variations.

Ostr: frigid: 1½ doz. Pisc: anima: locus aut quid: ali: [=a][=a][=a] xvi [dram] Cum: pom: terr: fervesc: f 8[dram] Ad Hoc: bib: sextarium ½ mx. Ovem: torrid: [ounce]ss. virides: ad. lib. Per: dix: anas: agrestis: } f[dram]ij. Condim: pan: aut aliquid: } fvijss. Prunosus: botulus: [=a][=a]f [dram]vj. Condim: prand: aut lact: Devonii: f 3 j.

Liq. Pomm: et Gr: '84 } Aut Mo: et Chand: '84 } Oj 4

Fiat haust: sec: vel test: quâque horâ: extra horâ coenæ: regulariter sumendum.

Si opus sit : Misce: aq: sodæ .. [dram]1/14.

Misce: ot: grog: h.s.s. Si opus sit aut non.

LITERARY GARDENING. A Correspondent, signing himself "STULTUS IN HORTU OR HORT U NOT?" writes, "Please, Sir, if my boy JOHN plant 'a slip of a pen,' what will it come up?" Answer paid A Jonquill.

TO THE QUEEN.

( FROM THE NATION. )

Queenly as womanly, those words that start From sorrow's lip strike home to sorrow's heart. Madam, our griefs are one; But yours, from kinship close and your high place, The keener, mourning him in youth's glad grace Who loved you as a son.

We mourn him too. Our wreaths of votive flowers Speak, mutely, for us. The deep gloom that lowers To day across the land Is no mere pall of ceremonial grief. 'Tis hard in truth, though reverent belief Bows to the chastening hand.

Hard for his parents, that young bride, and you, Bearer of much bereavement, woman true, And patriotic QUEEN! We hear the courage striking through the pain, As always in your long, illustrious reign, Which shrinking ne'er hath seen,

Shrinking from high strung duty, the brave way Of an imperial spirit. So to day Your People bow in pride. The sympathy of millions is your own. May Glory long be guardian of your Throne, Love ever at its side!

ENTIRELY UNSOLICITED TESTIMONIAL. Dartmoor . Gentlemen, Two years ago I wrote somebody else's name with one of your pens. Since then I have used no other.

Yours faithfully, A.F. ORGER. "To Messrs. STEAL, KNIBBS & CO."

"LA GRIPPE."

[Illustration]

(" I'm a devil! I'm a devil!" croaked Barnaby Rudge's Raven 'Grip': And this is a raven mad sort of Edgar Allan Poem by Un qui est Grippé. )

Once upon a midnight dreary Coming home I felt so weary, Felt, oh! many a pain; so curious, Which I'd never felt before. Then to bed, no chance of napping, Blankets, rugs about me wrapping, Feverish burning pains galore. "Oh! I've got it! oh!" I muttered, "Influenza!! what a bore!!" Only this!! Oh!! Nothing more!!

Oh! my head and legs are aching! Now I'm freezing! Now I'm baking! Clockwork in my cerebellum! Oh! all over me I'm sore! In my bed I'm writhing, tossing, Yet I'm in a steamer, crossing. While KIRALFY's Venice bossing, I'm "against" and RUSSELL "for" In a case about the Echo , Somewhere out at Singapore! It's delirium!!! Nothing more.

Then a Doctor comes in tapping Me all over, tapping, rapping. And with ear so close and curious Pressed to stethoscope, "Once more," Says he, "sing out ninety ninely, Now again! You do it finely! Yes! Not bigger than a wine lee, There's the mischief, there's the corps Of the insect that will kill us, Hiding there is the Bacillus; Only that , and nothing more!"