us, I'll trouble you!

'Tis long, my dear BOB, since I sent you a letter,
And this you'll admit is a practical one.
We Hairdressers wish our condition to better,
And get our fair share of rest, leisure, and fun.
One Five o' Clock Close every week is our plea, BOB,
Not much for the slaves of scrape-scrape and snip-snip!
The fairness of it I'm convinced you will see, BOB,
And so should the world, says

CARACTACUS CLIP.

[_Mr. Punch_, who knows how much his own personal comfort is
dependent upon the adroit ministrations of the "Sons of
the Shears," cordially seconds the appeal of his old
Correspondent.]

* * * * *

A CASE OF FRENCH LEAVE.--The Gallic Fleet have gone to Cherbourg--as
if they had not had enough "cheers" before leaving England!

* * * * *

[Illustration: DIFFERENCE OF OPINION.

_Jones_ (_reading aloud_). "'A TRUE, GOOD, NOBLE WOMAN IS EVER READY
TO MAKE HERSELF A DOOR-MAT FOR THE MAN SHE LOVES!'... AH, DOLLY,
_THOSE_ ARE THE WOMEN WHO MAKE THE BEST WIVES!"

_Mrs. J._ (_who is not of this type_). "YES, DEAR--AND THE _WORST
HUSBANDS!_"]

* * * * *

MR. PUNCH'S ANTI-LABOUR CONGRESS.

_MR. PUNCH (IN A MARINE LOTOS-LAND) SINGS HIS SEA-SIDE VERSION OF THE
LAUREATE'S LOVELY "CHORIC SONG."_

I.

There is a slumber here that softlier falls
Than forty-winks where dull, dull Bills they pass;
Oft have I drowsed within those dreary walls,
Where brays the pertinacious party ass.
Here sleep more gently on the spirit lies
Than where the SPEAKER tells the Noes and Ayes.
The wave-wash brings sweet sleep down, from the summer skies,
Here laps the azure deep,
And through the weed the small crabs creep,
And safe from prigs who plague and nymphs who peep,
Sagacious _Punch_ reclines and woos benignant sleep.

II.

Why are we weighed upon with Politics,
And, utterly fatigued by "bores" and "sticks,"
While all things else have rest from weariness?
All things have rest: why should we toil alone,
We only toil, who are "_such_ clever things!"
And make perpetual moan,
Still from one "Question" to another thrown?
Gulls, even, fold their wings,
And cease their wanderings,
Watching our brows which slumber's holy balm
Bathes gently, whilst the inner spirit sings
"There is no joy but calm!"
Why should _Punch_ only toil, the top and c