Once, an anxious mother's care,
Day by day you roamed the jungle,
Felt the sunshine, sniffed the air;
Life, methinks, was passing fair;
But of that no mortal tongue'll
Tell. Perhaps you never thought
If it bored you or enraptured
Till the wily hunter caught
You and all your friends and brought
Home to England, bound and captured.
Jessie, fairest of your race,
Now you're gone and few will miss you;
There will come to take your place
Creatures less replete with grace;
Elephants of grosser tissue
Will intrigue the public sight;
That, old girl, 's the common attitude.
Still, these few poor lines I write
May preserve your memory bright,
Since the pen is dipped in gratitude.
ALGOL.
* * * * *
[Illustration: MORE ADVENTURES OF A POST-WAR SPORTSMAN.
_P.-W.S._ (_having struggled over many ploughed fields_). "NOW THEN, MY
LAD, FETCH 'IM OVER 'ERE AND I'LL GIVE YOU A TANNER."
_Bucolic Profiteer._ "NOA, YE DOAN'T! GIVE OI TEN BOB OR OI LETS HE GO
AGAIN."]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
We are apt to think of Lord NORTHCLIFFE as the "onlie begetter" of the New
Journalism.
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