Propy. Ltd.,
244-254 Flinders Street, Melbourne
130 THE SPECULUM. May, 1916.
An' Boneo was in there pourin' words About the little cows perched in the trees;
'E told 'em 'ow 'e milked the bloomin birds, An' then 'e scented Cupid on the breeze! * * W'y spare me days! Yer barmy Boneo-
Yours is the star that falls before it's riz;
I never thort you was the sort of beau To do yer dash by givin' cliners phiz!
No more!
Phyllis.—Don't you believe him. You know what Ovid says:
Quod vobis dicunt, dixerunt mille puellis.
Os Fully.—Your Rablasian ravings held over until the Editor gets drunk enough to defy the world. Keep going. Your seed hasn't fallen by the wayside. (From what the little birds sing.)
Bacchus.—Still the same old strain, and we sympathise with you.
But away out West I would build my nest On a vined Valerian hill,
Where I could paint Without restraint Creation redder still.
Stewart, P. C.—We candidly confess that our hat is still the same size.
Henery.—We are willing to credit you with the best inten- tions in sending us your war poems. Farther than that we can- not go.
Venus.—See Phyllis. Agnovit veteris vestigia flammae, which being translated means—one never forgets his old flames.
Eppie Cure.—Your "Apple Tart" fell flat like our highest ex- pectations when we found "pastry" trying to rhyme with "tasty."
Would you like to know our opinion of Tarts?
Of tarts there are a thousand kinds, So versatile the art,
And as we all have different minds, Each has his favourite tart.
Yet those, methinks, should not suit me That most delight the rest—
However sweet the others be The "apple-tart" tastes best.
Foment.—No good! Let the matter drop!
Tenesmus.—Contribution rather thin.
Erwin.—(i) About June to. (2) In about two months. (3) Wear ordinary corsets.
C.E.S.—All your instructions about printing your contribu- tions were carried out carefully—by the Office Boy. Glad to say he hasn't come back yet.
Prolapsus.—Got rather a set-back.
B.—What you call your drawing. Yes, we're going to slang it! Ossy's super-cow (labelled) looks too suspiciously like a cross between a flea-pasture and a scrambled egg rescued from a bucket of soot. For the sake of Calliope and us, use Bristol board and not blotting paper, a pen and not a straw, and don't waste your soup when you might sprinkle ink about in a like masterful man- ner. Lastly, don't try to distort a cow again. For further de- tails of drawing consult "Foment."
M.A.S.—We advise Phosphol. All children like it.
Cantery.—Too hot!
W.D.—It is purely a matter of self-control.
W.R.D.—There is .a lovely vacancy for you as junior leader writer in the "New Idea" office. What a tender ecstasy lurks throughout that line, "Amid silent smiles that echo round the room." We wish you good-bye.
Tummy.—Certainly your luck is as hard as gamboling goat's knees. You have our sympathies.
H.D.A.—Drunk again! Just you wait till the morning-after.
Using one at present.
Lo Chia.—Rotten. Your pathological plaint over Example 277o, the skull of Ah Kim who met a hatchet, offers a thoughtful first verse:—
"And nextly"—Spirit sodden there you lie,
Taunting with darksorne thoughts our frantic fancy In shameless silence that would e'en defy
All Ossy's necromancy.
Ah, would that you could tune a pulsive lyre
And sing your song as haply you might catch it;
Tell how you bared your pate to Pon Jock's ire And his unerring hatchet.
Let us have an effort.—
Come, candidly confess your morbid aim.
wan Had you a purely scientific reason, Or must we blush and shyly put the blame
On storms in Love's soft season.
Maybe, the wandering affections of
Some gay coquettish Little Bourke St. Chloe Had stirred her Strephon to dissections of
Celestial diploe.
If so, you must admit such interludes
Of squandered loves and hymeneal quarrels, But come from blending Plato's platitudes
With you Confucian morals.
Again, pathetic Pon perhaps supposed Himself some craniologist like Dicky, And similarly martially disposed,
Got ratilltr ters.) and sticky.
132 THE SPECULUM. May, 1916 Molimina.—Look forward to a future issue.
A.B.—Jokes certainly not to our taste.
Os Fully.—Singing once more of the W.H.:
0 dainty, charming girl to think that peace Is thine! Grim troubles cease;
Contentment takes the place of every fear;
And Heaven reigns supreme when thou art near!
Post-Partum.—Inspired by King John; Act III., Scene IV., and the spirit of the times bursts thus wise:—
Death, Bonzer Death! Ter this rare bit o' fluff Wriggle yer kidstakes an' bring yer doped nectar.
Wake, dirty dosser, an' bundle yer bluff;
I dips me lid ter yer cavillin' spectre.
Fate's shyin' lover, I tips yer the wink;
Come, strike me pink!
Freddy W.—What with 6 o'clock closing and your hair- raising article—. Take care it doesn't happen again.
G.J.—Thanks very much for contributions. Don't let us talk about the verses. Whispers when we get alone.
Jay. Effok.—Ccuple of poems held over. Thanks!
Sydney Crawcour (De Creve).—Y our "In Memoriam" left our intercostals sore from sobbing. We even found our lachrymal duct far from competent. We don't see why we should suffer such anguish while the world goes free, so here you are—
Not often do I court the muse, it has not been my wont;
But somehow on this lovely night, I'm ling'ring at her font.
My thoughts fly to a schoolboy chum, whose inmost thoughts I've read,
And- now my brain is dulled with grief, poor chap, he's lying dead.
He used to play at manly games and many's the fight he's fought, And though he would not always win, he'd take it like a sport.
As time went on and manhood reached up to the "Shop" he came, And started off like all of us, to try and make his name....
And then the world with war was torn, to stay he'd ne'er consent.
His work he left, into the strife immediately he went.
Just as he played in peaceful times, the same lie fought in war, And played his part like a hero true on far Gallipoli's shore.
And there he died an awful loss to all who knew his worth, Down in the vale they buried him—Gave back to Mother Earth.
Pax.—Mr. Fitchett's usual corner in the Spec. already filled.
Sorry.
Vernon W.—Held over till next issue.
P.A.K.—Couldn't read your writing, so didn't send it to the poor printer. Besides, you didn't even send your name. Are you ashamed of it?
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