Produced by Jane Robins, Malcolm Farmer and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOLUME 93, OCTOBER 15, 1887. _edited by Sir Francis Burnand._ 'ARRY ON OCHRE. [Illustration] DEAR CHARLIE, Hoctober, my 'arty, and 'ARRY, wus luck! 's back in town, Where it's all gitting messy and misty; the boollyvard trees is all brown, Them as ain't gone as yaller as mustard. I _do_ 'ate the Autumn, dear boy, When a feller 'as spent his last quid, and there's nothink to do or enjoy. Cut it spicy, old man, by the briny, I did, and no error. That Loo Was a rattler to keep up the pace whilst a bloke 'ad a brown left to blue. Cleared me out a rare bat, I can tell yer; no Savings Bank lay about _her_. Yah!--Women is precious like cats, ony jest while you strokes 'em they purr. Lor', to think wot a butterfly beauty I was when I started, old pal! Natty cane, and a weed like a hoop-stick, and now!--oh, well, jigger that gal! Cut me slap in the Strand ony yesterday, CHARLIE, so 'elp me, she did. Well, of sech a false baggage as Loo is, yours truly is jolly well rid. Wot a thing this yer Ochre is, CHARLIE! The yaller god rules us all round. Parsons patter of poverty's pleasures! I tell yer they ain't to be found. If you 'aven't the ha'pence you're nothink; bang out of it, slap up a tree. That's a moral, as every man as is not a mere mug must agree. They talks of "the Masses and Classes,"--old Collars is red on that rot!-- There is ony two classes, old pal, them as 'as it and them as 'as not. The Ochre, I mean, mate, the spondulicks, call the dashed stuff wot you please. It's the Lucre as makes Life worth livin', without it things ain't wuth a sneeze. O CHARLIE, I wish I'd got millions! I _ought_ to be rich, and no kid. I feel I wos made for it, CHARLIE. To watch every bloomin' arf quid, Like a pup at a rat 'ole is beastly. Some stingy 'uns _carn't_ go the pace, But I know I should turn out a flyer, and so ought to be in the race. Oh, it ain't every juggins, I tell yer, who's built for the bullion, dear boy! You must know the snide game that's called "Grab," you must know what it means to "enjoy." Neither one without tother's much use, but the true Ochre Kings are the chaps As can squeeze millions out of "the Masses." They win in life's game, mate, by laps. That's jest wot "the Masses" is made for; _them asses_ I calls 'em, old man, Same letters, same thing, dontcher know. Yus, Socierty's built on this plan. Many littles makes lots, that's the maxim; and he is the snide 'un, no doubt, Who can squeeze his lot out of the littles of half the poor mugs who're about.