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A CONSPIRACY IN THE POULTRY-YARD.
DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I suppose it must be conceded that practical jokes
have not the vogue that they once enjoyed. No longer do you discover
some fine morning that the street in which you live is blockaded
with furniture vans, all endeavouring to deliver furniture you don't
require and never heard of before, while your staircase is a mass of
flowers and fruit constantly increasing upon you and threatening
to smother you with their amount no less than with their scent. It
would gradually appear that the deliveries both of the flowers and
the furniture were being executed in accordance with the orders of
one of your friends, and that you had to grin and bear it as best
you might. I cannot say that the victim or the general public, when
they heard of it, looked upon it with any excess of enthusiasm.
Anyhow, practical jokes have gone out.
Yet there is a kind of practical joke which, so far as I know, has
never been played upon anybody, and which, if it wore played,
might provoke a considerable volume of laughter and no small
inconvenience. I have schemed it out and venture to submit the plan
to you.
My idea is to take some weekly magazine which caters either for some
special trade or amusement or pursuit.
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