THE WEARING O' THE GREEN.--There was a discussion at the Cork Corporation's meeting on a recommendation of the Works Committee, that "a new uniform, of Irish manufacture, be ordered for the hall-porter." What should be the colour, was the difficulty? "Some members," we regret to read, "were in favour of blue"; and then the debate went on thus--
Mr. BIBLE he thought they should stick to the green Mr. FARINGTON said that green uniforms rot; Mr. LUCY denounced such a statement as mean, And--"never change colour!"--advised Sir JOHN SCOTT.
So the hall-porter will have a uniform of "green and gold"--the green to be durable," and the gold to make it endurable!
CABBY? OR, REMINISCENCES OF THE RANK AND THE ROAD.
No. II.--IN THE SHELTER. ME AND BILLY BOGER.
[The first Cabman's Shelter or "Rest" in the Metropolis was set up at the Stand in Acacia Road, St. John's Wood, on February 6, 1875.]
There! After a two 'ours slow crawl through a fog, _with_ a cough, and a fare as is sour and tight-fisted, Why, even a larky one drops a bit low, and the tail of 'is temper gits terrible twisted. And that's where the Shelter comes 'andily in. With a cup of 'ot corfee, a slice and a "sojer," _And_ 'bacca to follow, life don't look so bad! What do _you_ think? I says to my pal BILLY BOGER.
Brown-crusted one, BILLY; 'ard baked from 'is birth. Drives a "Growler" yer see, and behaves quite according. Rum picter 'e makes with 'is 'at on 'is nose, and 'is back rounded up like, against a damp hoarding. Kinder kicks it at comfort, contrairy-wise, BILL do; won't take it on nohow, the orkurd old Tartar. The sort as won't 'ave parrydise as a gift if so be it pervents 'em from playing the martyr!
"That's 'Jackdaw' the Snapshotter all up and down!" says BILL with a grunt. That's a nickname 'e's guv me Along of my liking for looking at life. Well, the world is a floorer all round; but Lord love me Mere grumble's no good; doesn't mend things a mite; world rolls on and larfs at us; don't seem a doubt of it; Cuss it and cross it, and over _you_ go! Better far to stand by and look on, till you're out of it.
"Heye like a bloomin' old robin, _you_ 'ave," says BILL (meaning _me_), "allus cocked at creation As though you was recknin' it up for a bid like. And what is the end of your fine 'observation'? You squint, and you heft, and you size people up, sorter 'grading 'em out' as Yank JONATHAN puts it. And when you are through, what's the hodds? All my heye! You boss till you're blind, and then death hups and shuts it!"
