Mr. Punch's After-Dinner Stories Part 12

[Ill.u.s.tration: A PERSONAL GRIEVANCE

"I say, won't they let _you_ go into long trousers?"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE

THE GOORMONG. (_Epicuri de Grege Porcus. British Isles_)

_Mr. Huggins._ "_What_ a 'eavenly dinner it was!"

_Mr. Buggins._ "B'lieve yer! Mykes yer wish yer was born 'oller!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE NEW SCHOOL.--_Uncle_ (_who is rather proud of his cellar_). "Now George, my boy, there's a gla.s.s of champagne for you--don't get such stuff at school, eh? eh? eh?"

_George._ "H'm--awfully sweet! Very good sort for ladies--but I've arrived at a time of life, when I confess I like my wine _dry_!"

(_Sensation._)]

[Ill.u.s.tration: PLEASANT!--_Lord Reginald Sansdenier_ (_in answer to confidential remark of his host_). "Twenty thousand pounds worth of plate on the table, Sir Gorgius? I wonder you ain't afraid of being robbed!"

_Sir Gorgius Midas._ "_Robbed_, my lord! Good 'evens! I'm sure yer lords.h.i.+p's too honnerable heven to _think_ of sich a thing!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Farmer._ "I say, John, what do you call a pineapple--a fruit or a vegetable?"

_Waiter._ "A pineapple hain't neither, gentlemen. A pineapple is always a hextra!"]

DINING AL FRESCO

(_Extract from an Earl's Courtier's Notebook_)

6 P.M.--Come down early, to get a table. Can't. All the tables booked a week in advance. Very angry. Manager says he'll see what can be done for me--later on. Fairly satisfied. He had better!

7 P.M.--In state of heat. Have a fair appet.i.te. Ask for table. "What table?" "The one promised me--later on." "Very sorry, but they are all engaged." Awfully angry. Explain that I am a person of some importance.

Can do the place a great deal of good if I do have a table, and _vice versa_. Manager desolated. See everybody else stuffing, drinking, and enjoying themselves. How they can have the heart! And _I_ table-less!

But, no matter, a time will come. I'll write to "the leading journal"

and denounce everything and everybody.

7.15 P.M.--Explosively wrathful. At last! Ha! ha! Got a table. But at the back somewhere. Strong smell of cooking. Distant echo of a band.

Exceedingly annoyed. Have tasted _hors d'oeuvres_. Sardines decent.

7.20 P.M.--_Bonne Femme_ soup good. Have ordered champagne cup. Still annoyed.

7.30 P.M.--Salmon mayonnaise distinctly excellent. Good idea to have cold dinner. Champagne cup well brewed. Don't notice the smell of cooking. Can hear the band. Nice band.

7.40 P.M.--_Pate de fois gras en aspic._ Capital Cold joint. First-rate.

Salad artistically mixed. Second champagne cup as good as first. After all, place of table not so bad.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

[Ill.u.s.tration: A TRUE ARTIST.--_Mamma_ (_to Tommy, who has been allowed for a few minutes to wait at table_). "Now, Tommy, kiss me, and go to bed."

_Tommy_ (_to footman_). "Do _you_ ever kiss the missus, Charles?"

_Footman._ "No, sir!"

_Tommy._ "Then _I_ won't!"]

THE MENU A LA MODE

Come, Damon, since again we've met We'll feast right royally to-night, The groaning table shall be set With every seasonable delight!

The luscious bivalve ... I forgot, The oyster is an arch-deceiver, And makes its eater's certain lot A bad attack of typhoid fever.

With soup, then, be it thick or clear, The banquet fitly may commence-- Alas, on second thoughts, I fear With soup as well we must dispense.

The doctors urge that, in effect, Soup simply kills the thoughtless glutton.

It's full of germs. I recollect They say the same of beef and mutton.

Yes, each variety of meat, As you remark, is much the same, And we're forbidden now to eat Fish, oysters, poultry, joint or game.

But though a Nemesis each brings, The punishment, the doctors tell, is As nothing to the awful things Awaiting all who toy with jellies.

Cheese--that is not condemned with these Yet ample evidence we find To make us, Damon, look on cheese As simply poison to mankind; While those who may desire to pa.s.s Immediately o'er Charon's ferry, Have but to take a daily gla.s.s Of claret, hock, champagne or sherry.

And therefore, Damon, you and I, Who fain would live a year at least, Reluctantly must modify The scope of our projected feast; A charcoal biscuit we will share, Water (distilled, of course,) we'll swallow, Since this appears the only fare On which destruction will not follow!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

[Ill.u.s.tration: SMALL SOCIAL AGONIES

_Hostess._ "It's but a poor lunch I can give you! But my cook has got influenza!"

_Enfant terrible._ "Oh, mummy, you _always_ say that!"]