PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 100. June 20, 1891. ON THE RIVER. [Illustration] A light canoe, a box of cigarettes, Sunshine and shade; A conscience free from love or money debts To man or maid; A book of verses, tender, quaint, or gay, DOBSON or LANG; Trim yew-girt gardens, echoing the day When HERRICK sang; A Thames-side Inn, a salad, and some fruit, Beaune or Hochheimer;-- Are simple joys, but admirably suit An idle rhymer. * * * * * A 'BUS 'OSS'S MEMS. (_KEPT DURING A RECENT SOCIAL CRISIS._) _Saturday, June 6_, 11 P.M.--Home after our last turn. Fancy from several drinks had on the way, and the pace we had to put into that last mile and a half, that something's up. Turned into stall nice and comfortable, as usual. _Sunday_.--Something is up with a vengeance. Hoorooh! We're on strike. I don't know the rights of it, nor don't care, as long as I have my bit of straw to roll in, and a good feed twice a day. I wonder, by the way, if the fellow who looks after my oats is "off." Past feeding time. Feel uneasy about it. Hang it all, I would rather work for _my_ living, than be tied up here doing nothing without a feed! Ha! here he is, thank goodness, at last. However, better late than never. Capital fun this strike. _Monday_.--Am sent out in a loyal omnibus. Hooted at and frightened with brickbats. Felt half inclined to shy. Halloa! what's this? Hit on the ribs with a paving-stone. Come, I won't stand this. Kick and back the 'bus on to the pavement. All the windows smashed by Company's men. Passengers get out. Somebody cuts the traces, and I allow myself to be led back to the stables. Don't care about this sort of fun. However, feed all right. _Tuesday_.--Hear that the men want thirteen and sixpence a day and a seven hours' turn. Directors offer five and sixpence, and make the minimum seventeen hours. Go it, my hearties! Fight away! Who cares? You must feed _me_, that's quite certain. Still I don't care about being cooped up here all day. Nasty feeling of puffiness about the knees. Hang the strike! _Wednesday_.--Puffiness worse. Vet. looks in and says I want exercise. Take a bolus and am walked for half an hour or so up and down some back-streets. Bless them!--that ain't no good. _Thursday_.--Puffiness worse, of course. Bother it all, being shut up here! What wouldn't I give just for a sight of dear old Piccadilly! The fact is, if they don't soon let me have my run from King's Cross to Putney, I shall "bust up"--and that's a fact. I feel it. _Friday_.--Ah, they may well come to terms! Another day of this, and I believe I should have been off the hooks "for ever and for aye." It's all very well for Capital and Labour to get at loggerheads, but, as DUCROW said, they must cut all their disputes short if they wish to save anything of their business, and look sharp, and "come to the 'osses."