Puppets at Large: Scenes and Subjects from Mr Punch's Show

The Litig. P. (accepting the penny, and descending with dignity). Very well; and let me tell you this, it was just as well you gave way when you did, for I was quite prepared to carry the case to the House of Lords!

Cond. Ah! and I s'pose yer think yer'd git there for a penny?

    [The Omnibus goes on before the Litigious Person has time to think over such an obvious repartee as asking the Constable to take the man's number.

AT A HIGHLAND CATTLE AUCTION

A Yard. In the open space between the rows of pens the Auctioneer is trying to dispose of some horses which are trotted out one by one in the usual fashion

The Auctioneer (spectacled, red-bearded, canny, slightly Arcadian touch imparted by straw hat, and a sprig of heather in his button-hole). What'll I say for this, noo? (A horse of a meditative mien is just brought in.) Here's a beast, and a very good beast, from Lochaber! (The bystanders remain unmoved.) He was bred by Meester MacFarlane, o' Drumtappit, and ye'll all ha' haird on him as the biggest breeder in these pairts. (Heads are shaken, so much as to intimate that this particular animal does not do Mr. MacFarlane justice.) Trot him up an' doon a bit, boy, and show his action – stan' away back there! (With affected concern.) Don't curb him so tight – be careful now, or ye'll do meeschief to yourself an' others! (As the horse trots past them,several critics slap it disrespectfully on the hind-quarters – a liberty which it bears with meekness.) There's a pace for ye – he's a guid woorker, a gran' beast – hoo much shall we say for him? (Nobody seems able to express his appreciation of the grand beast in figures.) Just to stairt ye then – twenty poon! (Even the animal himself appears slightly staggered by this sum; bystanders are quietly derisive; Auctioneer climbs rapidly down without interruption till he reaches six pounds, when he receives his first bid.) Sex poon' is bed for 'm – is there ony advance on sex poon? (Someone in the background: – "Fefteen shellin'!") Sex-fefteen – noo, Meester McRobbie, wull ye no luik this way? (Mr. McR. responds by a decided negative.) Ye won't? Ah, I never got ony guid from ye – 'cept when I didn't meet ye. (This piece of Scotch "wut" raises a laugh at Mr.McR.'s expense, but does not affect the bidding, which still languishes.) Then, he's going at sex-fefteen – for the last time. Whaur's my bedder at sex-fefteen? (Repentance or modesty prevents the bidder from coming forward, and the Auctioneer continues, more in grief than anger.) Eh, this is too bad noo – I'll thank no man for making me a bed, 'cept those that are meant in airnest. No one bed onything for a beast like this! Then I hae to tell ye ye've not bed near up to the resairve price on it. (Suddenly becomes weary of the animal.) Tak' it awa'. (The next horse is led in.) Now, here's a beast that's well-known, I'm thenkin'. (The general expression signifies that its reputation is not altogether to its credit.) There's a well-bred mare – open up, and let her show hersel'. (The mare is shown, but fails to excite competition.) Ah, ye'll ony buy screws to-day, an' not the nice things at a' – tak' her away. (The mare is taken out ignominiously; Auctioneer, followed by crowd, leads the way to where a pony and trap are standing harnessed.) Noo, I'm gaun to pit up the pony an' van – just show them hoo she goes in hairness, boy. (To intrusive collie.) Out of the way, dug, in case ye get your feet smashed. (Trap starts off, and is driven out of sight.) Whaur's the laddie gaun ta? Thenks he'll show himsel' at Nairn, maybe! Ah, here she comes. (Trap returns at a modest pace.) Stan' back, noo, all of ye; give her room. I'll sell the mare first, and a beauty she is – what shell we say? Ten poons – and she's a nice one! Well, stairt her at five, she may get up. (Bidding gets up to ten pounds, where it stops.) Then she goes at ten, and I'm very glad she's gaun to a gude auld friend o' mine – Meester McKenzie, o' Glenbannock. Wull ye say five mair, and take the hairness, Meester McKenzie? It's richt hairness! (Mr. McK. declines to be tempted.) Well, I'm sorry ye wull na, I'd ha liked (sentimentally, as if it had been the dream of his life) for the mare an' the hairness to go togither and no to pairt them – but as 'tis, it canna be helped. We'll pass on to the pegs, if you please. (Passes to a row of pens containing pigs, and mounts some planks placed along the top.) Now, these are some proper pegs. (A rush is made for the rails enclosing the pigs, which instantly become self-conscious and redouble their grunts.) Noo, laddies, laddies, it's no fair o' ye taking up a' the room i' that way. I'm quite sure there's a lot o' ye in front that's no buying pegs – ye hanna the luik o' pairsons that buy pegs. Stan' by for shame, and don't keep them that comes to buy, where they canna see sae much as a tail. Hoo much apiece for these palefaced pegs? Ye've an awfu' guid view o' them there, Mr. Ferguson, – luik this way once again for forrty and threepence. (Persuasively.) It'll soun' better wi' the threepence. Gaun' for forty an' three. (The owner of the pigs calls out "No!") I thocht I made a law here that people having pegs should gie me the resairve at the time – see what ye do now, Peter MacPhairson, make a fule of the buyers and a fule o' mysel'! – but (with tolerant contempt) Peter is not a strong man, we must no be haird on Peter. (Roar from crowd;disappearance of Mr. MacPh.) I'll cancel no more sales that way, however, as I eentimate to ye once for a'.

'Arry (on tour from Town – to his admiring friend). I say, Charley, what d'yer bet I don't talk to some of these chaps in their own lingo?

Charley. What a fellow you are! Mind what you are about, that's all.

'Arry (going up to an elderly person in the only Scotch cap visible). Hech, Sair, but yon's a braw bonnie wee bit piggie fur a body to tak' a richt gude wullie waucht wi' gin ye meet him comin' thro' the rye!

The Person in the Scotch Cap (who happens to be a retired Colonel in a Highland Regiment, who is somewhat careless in his attire). I think you will find that sort of thing better appreciated after you've got home.

    ['Arry returns to Charley, feeling much smaller than he allows his friend to perceive.

THE COUNTRY OF COCKAIGNE

A Monologue – With a Moral

An airless Court in a London back Street. Time – August

Jimmy (aged eight, to Florrie, aged seven). No, I ain't comin' to the Reckereation Groun', not jess yit, I carn't… I'm goin' ter wyte about 'ere till the lidy comes… Why, 'er as is comin' to see my Muvver 'bout sendin' me fur a fortnight in the kerntry… Yus, where I was larst year… It's settled as I'm ter go agine – leastways as good as settled. My Farver 'e've sent in a happlication to the K'mitty, and Teacher 'e sez 'e kin reckermend me, an' Mr. and Mrs. Delves – them as 'ad the cottidge where I went afore – they've arst fur to 'ave me agin – so you see, Florrie, it's all right. On'y I carn't settle to nuffink afore I know when I'm goin', an' about the trine an' that. Yer 'ave to roide in a trine to git to the kerntry, yer know… Wot, ain't yer never bin there?.. Yer'd wanter fawst enough if yer knoo what it was loike… There's grorss there, an' trees an' that… Na-ow, a lot better 'n the Reckereation Groun' – that's all mide outer old grivestones as the deaders 'as done wiv. There's 'ills an' bushes an' 'edges where yer can pick flowers… There ain't no perlice to git yer locked up… An' everyfink smells so lovelly, kinder 'elthy like – it mikes yer feel 'ungry… Not like sassages an' inions azackly – 'tain't that sorter smell… On'y 'ere and there, an' yer'd 'ardly tell they was shops, they kerry 'em on that quoiet… Yer wouldn' call it poky if yer was there. Mr. Delves 'e was a kind man, 'e was; mide me a whistle out a sickermore brornch, 'e did; and Mrs. Delves, she lemme help her feed the chickings… They 'ad a garding beyind, an' there'd bin rasberries an' gooseberries a growin' on bushes – strite, there 'ad – I ain't tellin' yer no lies – on'y they was all gone by then. An' they 'ad a dog – Rover 'is nime was – 'e was a koind dog, lemme lay insoide of 'is kennel orfen, 'e would… I'd like ter 'ave a run over thet Common agen, too. I dessay as I shell – p'reps the d'y arter to-morrer… There's a pond on it, an' geese, an' they comes at yer a stritching out their necks an' a-'issin' thet sevidge… Na-ow, yer've on'y got ter walk up to 'em, an' they goes orf, purtendin' they took yer fur somebody else, an' wasn't meanin' no offence. I ain't afride o' no geese, I ain't – nor yet Lily wasn't neither. We sor a pig 'aving a ring put froo 'is nose one day. 'E 'ollered out like 'e was bein' killed – but 'e wasn't. An' there was a blecksmiff's, where they put the 'orse's shoes on red 'ot, 'an the 'orse 'e never took no notice. Me and Lily used ter go fur long walks, all under trees. Once she showed me a squill – "squerl" she kep' a-calling of it, till I tole 'er 'ow – an' it run up a tree zigzag, and jumped on to another ever so fur. That was when we was pickin' nuts. We went a blackberryin', too, one day… Na-ow, there warn't nobody dead. An' Lily … Lily Delves 'er nime was, b'longed to them I was stoppin' wiv… I didn't notice partickler… Older nor you, an' bigger, and lots redder 'bout the cheeks… She wasn't a bad sort – fur a gal… I dunno; I liked all on 'em… Well, there was Farmer Furrows, 'e was very familiar, said as 'ow I might go inter 'is horchard and pick the happles up as was layin' there jest fur the askin'. An' Bob Rumble, 'im as druv Mr. Kennister the grocer's cart, 'e used ter gimme a roide along of 'im when 'e was tikin' round porcels an' that. We'd go along lanes that 'igh yer couldn't see nuffink fur leaves; and once 'e druv along a Pork with tremenjus big trees in it, an' stagses walkin' about underneath with grite big 'orns… Suthink like 'im as is drawed outside the public round the corner – on'y they warn't none o' them gold. I 'speck them gold ones is furrin'… An' the grub – we 'ad beekstike pudd'n o' Sundays, an' as much bread an' treacle every day as ever I could eat, and I was 'ungry when I was in the kerntry… An' when I come away Mrs. Delves, she gethered me a big noseguy fur to tike 'ome to Muvver – kissantimums, merrigoles, an' dyliers, all sorts there was – an' Murver she put 'em in a jug, and soon as ever I shet my eyes an' sniffed, I could see that garding and Rover and Lily as pline– but they went bad, an' 'ad to be froed aw'y at larst. I shall see 'em all agine very soon now, though, won't thet be proime, eh?.. Whatsy? 'Ere, Florrie, you ain't croying, are yer?.. Why don't yer arsk yer Farver if 'e won't let you go… Oh, I thought as yer wanted to go. Then what are yer – ?.. No, I ain't gled to git aw'y from you… A-course I shell be gled to see 'er; but that ain't why, it's jest – You ain't never bin in the kerntry, or you'd know 'ow I'm feelin'… There's the lidy comin' now. I must cut across an' 'ear what she sez to Muvver. Don' tike on – 'tain't o'ny fur a fortnight, anyway… Look 'ere, I got suthink' for yer, Florrie, bought it orf a man what 'ad a tray on 'em – it's a wornut, d'ye see? Now open it – ain't them two little choiner dolls noice, eh?.. I'd rorther you 'ad it nor 'er, strite, I would!.. I'll be back in a minnit.

After an Interval of Twenty-four Hours.

No, I ain't bin nowhere particular… Settled? yus, it's all settled 'bout me goin' ter the kerntry… To-morrer? no, I ain't goin' to-morrer… Nex' week? not as I knows on… You wanter know sech a lot, you do!.. If I do tell yer, you'll on'y go an' larf… Well, I ain't goin' at all —now I 'ope you're pleased… What's the good o' bein' sorry?.. Oh, I don't keer much, I don't… Set down on this step alonger me, then, and don't you go saying nuffink, or I'll stop tellin' of yer… You remember me goin' in yes'day arternoon to 'ear what the lidy said? Well, when I got in, I 'eard 'er s'y, "Yus, it'll be a great disappintment for 'im, pore boy," she sez, "arter lookin' forward to it an' all; but it can't be 'elped." And Muvver, she sez, "'Is Farver'll be sorry, too; it done Jimmy ser much good larst time. 'E can't pay not more nor 'arf-a-crownd a week towards it, but he can manage that, bein' in work jess now." But the lidy sez, "It's this w'y," she sez, "it costis us neelly arf a suffering over what the parint pays fur each child, and we ain't got the fun's fur to send more 'n a few, cos the Public don' suscroibe ser much as they might," she sez. "An' so this year we're on'y sending children as is delikit, an' reelly wants a chinge." So yer see, I ain't a goin'. I dunno as I'm delikit; but I do want the kerntry orful bad, I do. I wish I never 'adn't bin there at all 'cos then preps I shouldn' mind. An' yit I'm gled I bin, too. I dreamt about it larst night, Florrie, I did. I was a-settin' on this 'ere step, sime as I am now, an' it was 'ot an' stoiflin', like it is; an' all of a suddink I see Mr. Kennister's' cart wiv the grey 'orse turn into our court an' pull up hoppersite, an' Bob Rumble 'e was a-driving on it. An' 'e sez, "Jump up!" 'e sez, "an' I'll tike yer back to Mr. Delves's cottidge." And I sez, "May Florrie come too?" An' 'e sez, "Yus, both on yer." So up we gits, and we was droivin' along the lanes, and I was showin' yer the squills an' the stagses, an' jes as we come to the turn where yer kin see the cottidge – Well, I don' remember no more on it. But it was a noice dream so far as I got wiv it, an' if I 'adn't never bin there, I couldn' ha' dreamt it, could I, eh? An', like as not, I'll dream the rest on it anuvver night… An' you must try an' dream your share, too, Florrie. It'll be a'most like bein' in the kerntry in a sort o' w'y fur both on us, won't it?

The Moral.

(The Offices of the Children's Country Holidays Fund are at 10, Buckingham Street, Strand, and contributions should be made payable to the Hon. Treasurer.)

THE END