Summary

Various Punch, or the London Charivari…

Well hit! Mr. Punch chalks it up once more—
Your ten-hundredth run between the "creases"!
Why, this (at twenty-two yards apiece) is
Twelve-miles-and-a half for this season's score!
But stay! we've no business to "notch" each mile!
With your cuts and draws, and your drives and trick hits,
You've only to stand still before the wickets,
And straight to the boundary "fours" compile!
Source: Gutenberg

Various Punch, or the London Charivari…

Mother Earth has ever paid, and payeth still, far too much worship to Mars—the Mars of her own militant fancy. To tell you the truth, Punch, I'm sick of my old métier, especially since Science stepped in and bedevilled it past bearing with her big guns, and dynamite-bombs, and treacherous torpedoes; weapons more fit for grubby Vulcan's subterranean Cyclops than a god, a gentleman and a soldier like me.
Source: Gutenberg

Various Punch, or the London Charivari…

Spurrell——!
Spurr. Well, if you'd only tell me what I ought to do!
"My keys! Why, what do you want them for?"
Lady Maisie. Surely that's very simple; do nothing; just take everything quietly as it comes, and you can't make any mistakes.
Spurr. (anxiously) . And you don't think anybody'll see anything odd in my being here like this?
Lady Maisie (to herself) . I'm only too afraid they will! (Aloud.) You really must have a little self-confidence. Just remember that no one here could produce anything a millionth part as splendid as your Andromeda!
Source: Gutenberg

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