(Mr. GLADSTONE has lately published an unsympathetic Pamphlet
    on “Female Suffrage,” and has declined to receive a Deputation
    on the “Eight Hours Day” question.)]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  AN OVER-EXTENDED FRANCHISE.

(The Radical Grocer has just been elected County Councillor.)

My Lady (to her pet protegee).  “PRAY WHOM DID YOUR HUSBAND VOTE FOR?”

Martha Stubbs.  “I DON’T KNOW, MY LADY.”

My Lady.  “BUT SURELY YOUR HUSBAND TOLD YOU?”

Martha Stubbs.  “HE DOESN’T KNOW HIMSELF, MY LADY.  HE’S SUCH A POOR IGNORANT CREATURE!”]

* * * * *

BURNING WORDS.

(FROM A WORKING MAN.)

["How many of you men would contribute to a Working Men’s Fund the shilling you put on Orme, who, by the way, I am sorry to see was not poisoned to death.”—­Mr. John Burns in the Park.]

  Look ‘ere, JOHN, you stow it; you’re nuts on the spoutin’;
    I don’t mind a man as can ’oller a bit;
  And if shillings are goin’, I’d back you for shoutin’,
    Though your game’s an Aunt Sally, all miss and no ’it. 
  But the blusterin’ chap as keeps naggin’ the boys on
    To fight and get beat all for nothing’s an ass. 
  And I’m certain o’ this, that the wust kind o’ poison
    Is the stuff as you fellers ’ave lots of—­that’s gas!

  What’s Orme done to you? ’E can’t ‘elp a cove bettin’. 
    To get at ’im for that is a trifle too warm. 
  And poisonin’ racers ain’t my kind o’ vettin’. 
    I likes a good ’orse, so ’ere’s ’ealth to old Orme. 
  Take a bolus yourself, it might stop you from roarin’;
    There’s nothin’ like tryin’ these games on yourself! 
  And I’ll throw BENNY TILLETT and one or two more in,
    Just to lay the whole lot o’ you up on the shelf.

  BEN TILLETT talks big of a mind that’s a sewer;
    Well, ’e knows what it is, for I’ll lay ’e’s bin there. 
  And you’d make a ’orse into cat’smeat on skewer. 
    My eye, but just ain’t you a nice-spoken pair!
  I ain’t goin’ to foller you two like a shadder,
    Your ’eads is a darned sight too swelled up with brag. 
  If you don’t want to bust and go pop like a bladder,
    Why you’d best take my tip—­put ’em both in a bag.

  So ta-ta, JOHN.  I ain’t the least wish to offend you,
    But plain words to fellers like you is the best. 
  If they’d give me my way, why I’d jolly soon end you,
    Beard, blather and all; you’re no more than a pest. 
  I can fight and take knocks, and I’ll stand by my folk, Sir,
    I’ll ’elp them as ’elps me with whatever I earns;
  But I’ve this for your pipe, if you’re wantin’ a smoke, Sir,—­
    I ain’t one for poison, nor yet for JOHN BURNS!