PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 101. September 19, 1891. [Illustration: OFF DUTY. _The "Daily Graphic" Weather-Young-Woman gets her "Sundays out."_] * * * * * SILENCE AND SLEEP. (_LINES WRITTEN AT COCK-CROW._) Night-time and silence! O'er the brooding hill The last faint whisper of the zephyr dies; Meadows and trees and lanes are hushed and still, A shroud of mist on the slow river lies; And the tall sentry poplars silent keep Their lonely vigil in a world of sleep. Yea, all men sleep who toiled throughout the day At sport or work, and had their fill of sound, The jest and laughter that we mate with play, The beat of hoofs, the mill-wheel grinding round, The anvil's note on summer breezes borne, The sickle's sweep in fields of yellow corn. And I too, as the hours go softly by, Lie and forget, and yield to sleep's behest, Leave for a space the world without a sigh, And pass through silence into dreamless rest; Like a tired swimmer floating tranquilly Full in the tide upon a peaceful sea. But hark, that sound! Again and yet again! Darkness is cleft, the stricken silence breaks, And sleep's soft veil is rudely rent in twain, And weary nature all too soon, awakes; Though through the gloom has pierced no ray of light, To hail the dawn and bid farewell to night. Still is it night, the world should yet sleep on, And gather strength to meet the distant morn. But one there is who, though no ray has shone, Waits not, nor sleeps, but laughs all rest to scorn, The demon-bird that crows his hideous jeer, Restless, remorseless, hateful Chanticleer. One did I say? Nay, hear them as they cry; Six more accept the challenge of the foe: From six stretched necks six more must make reply, Echo, re-echo and prolong the crow. First shrieking singly, then their notes they mix In one combined cacophony of six. Miscalled of poets "herald of the day," Spirit of evil, vain and wanton bird, Was there then none to beg a moment's stay Ere for thy being Fate decreed the word? Could not ASCLEPIAS, when he ceased to be, Take to the realms of death thy tribe and thee? What boots it thus to question? for thou ART, And still shalt be; but never canst be still, Destined at midnight thus to play thy part, And when all else is silent to be shrill. Yea, as I lie all sleepless in the dark, I love not those who housed thee in the Ark. * * * * * "AS GOOD AS A BETTER." Dr. Andrew Wilson (in "Science Jottings," in the _Illustrated London News_) dares disparage Golf "as an ideal game for young men," venturing to advocate the preferential claims of fogeyish Cricket, and even of futile Lawn Tennis-- "O Scots, wha hae wi' BALFOUR teed."