PUNCH,

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 “Coenae prescriptionem” only, as the “Prescrip:  prandialis” can be taken out of this with variations.

  Ostr:  frigid:  11/2 doz. 
  Pisc:  anima:  locus aut quid:  ali:  [=a][=a][=a] xvi [dram]
  Cum:  pom:  terr:  fervesc:  f 8[dram]
  Ad Hoc:  bib:  sextarium 1/2 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:  quaque hora:  extra hora coenae:  regulariter sumendum.

Si opus sit:  Misce:  aq:  sodae .. [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,—­