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<title>Punch, or the London Charivari, June 29th, 1895.</title>
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<h2>Excerpt from Punch, or the London Charivari, June 29th, 1895.</h2>
<h3>As taken from <a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/files/43981/43981-h/43981-h.htm">Project Gutenberg</a></h3>
<p class="title1">(<i>As foreseen by Mr. Punch's Second-sighted Clairvoyant.</i>)</p>
<blockquote><p><span class="outdent"><i>It is the summer</i></span> <i>of 1896—or possibly '97.
The scene is a road skirting Victoria Park, Bethnal Green, which Society's
leaders have recently discovered and appointed as the</i> rendez-vous <i>for
the Season, and where it is now the correct thing for all really
smart people to indulge, between certain prescribed hours, in
sports and pastimes that have hitherto been more characteristic
of the masses than the classes. The only permissible mount
now is the donkey, which must be ridden close to the tail, and
referred to as a "moke." A crowd of well-turned-out spectators
arrives from the West End every morning about eleven to watch
the brilliant parade of "Mokestrians" (as the Society journalist
will already have decided to call them). Some drive slowly up
and down on coster-barrows, attended by cockaded and disgusted
grooms. About twelve, they break up into light luncheon
parties; after which they play democratic games for half an
hour or so, and drive home
on drags.</i>
</p></blockquote>
<p><i>Mr. Woodby-Innett</i> (<i>to the</i>
Donkey Proprietor). Kept a
moke for me? I told you I
should be wantin' one every
mornin' now.</p>
<p><i>The Donkey Proprietor</i> (<i>after
consulting engagement-book</i>).
I've not got it down on my list,
Sir. Very sorry, but the Countess
of <span class="sc">Cumberback</span> has just
booked the last for the 'ole of
this week. Might let you 'ave
one by-and-by, if Sir <span class="sc">Hascot
Goodwood</span> brings his in punctual,
but I can't promise it.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Woodby-Inn.</i> That's no
good; no point in ridin' after
the right time. (<i>To himself, as
he turns away.</i>) Nuisance!
Not that I'm so keen about a
moke. Not a patch on a bike!—though
it don't do to say so.
Only if I'd known this, I'd
have turned up in a tall hat and
frock coat; and then I could
have taken a turn on the steam-circus.
Wonder if it would be
any sort of form shyin' at cocoa-nuts
in tweeds and a straw hat.
Must ask some chap who knows.
More puzzlin' what to put on this
year than ever!</p>
<p><i>Lady Ranela Hurlingham</i>
(<i>breathlessly to</i> Donkey Proprietor).
That's mine, isn't it?
Will you please put me up, and
<i>promise</i> me you'll keep close behind
and make him run. (<i>Suppliantly.</i>)
You will, <i>won't</i> you?</p>
<p><i>The Donkey Proprietor</i> (<i>with
a due sense of his own value</i>).
Well, I dessay I can come along presently, Lady <span class="sc">'Urlingham</span>, and
fetch 'im a whack or two; jest now I can't, having engaged to come and
'old the Marshiness of 'Ammercloth's on 'er moke; but there, you
orter be able to git along well enough by yourself now—<i>you</i> ought!</p>
<p><i>Captain Sonbyrne</i> (<i>just home on leave from India—to</i> Mrs.
<span class="sc">Chesham-Lowndes</span>). Rather an odd sort of idea this—I mean,
coming all the way out here to ride a lot of donkeys, eh?</p>
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