Here I am a-sitting up in the old spot; there's the theayter in the back-yard, with the green baize and the front up here on account o' the rain. There you are you see, turn him round. There's a given up to the calls o' the time. "Temple of Arts" you see on the top, in a ribbon, with Punch holdin' on wun side and comical Joey holding on t'other. There's the strap and box, if you'll open it, and there's the pipes on the chimbly-piece. There's everything complete but the drum, and that we was obliged to lend to the 'Lastic Brothers, for theirs is lent, uncle you know, and Jem Brown, one on 'em, says he lost the ticket, though it looks werry suspicious. But, now, just open that box, and lay 'em out one at a time on the table, and you'll just see as it ain't our fault as we don't get on. An' take that ere fust. 'Tain't no business there, but it's got atop somehow. That's the gallus that is, and I allus would have as galluses ought to be twiste as big, but Bill Bowke, my pardner, he says as it's right enough, and so I wouldn't alter. Now there you are! Look at that, now! There's a Punch! Why, it's enough to bring tears in yer eyes to see how public taste's fell off. There was four coats o' paint put on him, besides the touchins up and finishins, and at a time, too, when browns were that scarce it was dreadful. There, pull 'em out, sir; I ain't ashamed o' the set, and hard-up as I am at this werry moment, I wouldn't take two pound for 'em. There, now. Pull 'em out. That's Joe, and he's got his legs somehow in the beadle's pocket. Quite nat'ral, ain't it? just as if he was a rum 'un 'stead of only being a doll, you know. That's the kid as you've dropped. That ain't much account, that ain't; for you see babies never does have any 'spression on their faces, and anything does to be chucked outer window; and the crowd often treads on it, bless you. There's a Judy, too; only wants a new frill a-tacking on her head for a cap, and she's about the best on the boards, I'll bet. You see I cared 'em myself, and give the whole of my mind to it, so as the faces might look nat'ral and taking. Mind his wig, sir. Ah! that wants a bit o' glue, that does, and a touch o' black paint. You see that's the furrin gentleman as says nothin' but "Shallabala," and a good deal o' the back of his head's knocked off. There you are, you see, bright colours, good wigs, and nicely dressed. That's the ghost. Looks thin? well, in course, sperrets ain't 'sposed to be fat. Head shrunk? Well, 'nuff to make it. That's Jack Ketch; and that's the coffin; and that's the devil. We don't allus bring him out, and keeps the ghost in the box sometimes, according to the company as we gets in. Out in the streets the people likes to see it all; not as they often do, for we generally gets about half through, and then drops it, pretending we can't get coppers enough to play it out, when the real thing is as the people's sucked dry, and won't tip any more, or