Punch: Punch (103.1892)

September 10, 1892.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 113

Dick Gatling {in
ront, as his Sheep
halts to crop the turf
in a leisurely man-
ner). We've not
pulled up—only ly-
ing-to to take in
supplies. We 're go-
ing ahead directly.
There, what did I
tell you ! Now she 's
tacking!

The Curate {in the
rear). Poo' little
Jacko, then—there,
there, quietly now!
Miss Stella, what
does it mean when it
gibbers like that ?
{Sotto voce.) I won-
der, if I let go the
chain-

Mr. Duff {hauling
his Goose towards
Miss Chaffers). It's
no use—/can't keep
this beast from bolt-
ing off the course:

Miss C. Do keep
it away from my
Puppy, at all events.
I know it will peck
him, and he's per-
fectly happy licking
my shoe—he's found
out there 's sugar-
candy in the varnish.

Mr. Duff {so-
lemnly). Yes, but I
say, you know —
that's all very well,
but it's not making him race, is it? Now I am getting some
running out of my Goose.

Miss C. Rather in-and-out-running, isn't it? {Cries of distress
from the rear.) But what is the matter now ? That poor dear
Curate again!

The Curate {in agony). Here, I say, somebody ! do help me! Miss
Stella, do speak to your monkey, please! It's jumped on my
back, and it's pulling my hair—'ow!

[Most of the Competitors abandon their animals and rush to the
rescue.

_ Dick Gatling {coming up later). Why on earth did you all jack up
like that ? You've missed a splendid finish ! My Mutton was forging
ahead like fun, when Fanshawe's Peacock hoisted his sail, and drew
alongside, and it was neck and neck. Only, as he had more neck
than tbe Mutton, and stuck it out, he won by a beak. Look here,

THE ONLY MAN IN ROTTEN ROW.

Scene from The Rake's Progress.

To the mast-head high we nail the Burge,*
When the north wind snores its dismal dirge!
In the trough of the sea with a mighty splurge,
The quiv'ring Yacht beats down the surge,
And weathers the Warner Light!

This experience having inspired me with courage, I indulged
in anotber night of daring which required all the aplomb of a
leader of Fashion to carry out successfully; and, though few of
the "smart" Ladies of my set habitually indulge in the habit,
I am happy to think I am encouraging them in a healthy and
amusing pastime, which, in the Summer, may in time even rival
Lawn Tennis ! However—not to beat about the bush any longer—
(what an utterly absurd expression this is !—as if it could hurt the
bush to beat it!—to say nothing of the difficulty of keeping a bush
always handy to beat!)—it is time 1 told you what this great achieve-

c/ ? J. ( ------»/ ---- U--------- j

the scarcefy disguised relief of the Curate, who is prevented
from remaining to tea by the pressure of parish-ivork

let's have it all over again ! I ment of mine was—I went paddling ! There !—the secret is out!

[But the Monkey being up a tree, and the Colonel having'surrep- the Fashion is set!—the new Summer Amusement discovered! The
titiously got rid of his Rabbit among the bracken, and the 1 l^]es of the Game are being written, and will shortly be published
Tortoise having retired within his shell and firmly declined j under the title, Routledge s Etiquette of Paddling for Ladies
to come out again, sport is abandoned for the afternoon, to °f Good Standing." I need hardly tell you that the first thing

- necessary is to find a secluded bay, and it is also advisable to collect
a few children to take with you—(there are usually plenty left about
on the beach from which you can make a selection)—as a sort of ex-
cuse ;—no other implements are required for the game, in fact,
superfluities are a nuisance and only get wet—thus equipped—the
game can be played with freedom—{not from pebbles)—combined of
course with propriety, and will be found amusing and invigorating—
(quotation from the preface to the Book of Pules written by the
eminent German Doctor, Herr Splashenwasser—inventor of the
Water-Cure.

The next Race meeting requiring attention takes place at Don-
caster this week, and the most important race, I take it—at least, I
don't take it—but the winner will—another senseless expression—
is naturally the St. Leger, for which I make a poetic selection,
which has cost me weeks of anxious thought, no "leger" task!
—(French joke)—owing to the number of horses engaged, so few of
which will run! Yours devotedly, Lady Gat.

St. Leger Selection".

The best of the classic events of the year

We are told by the students of "form,"
Is a foregone conclusion, 'tis perfectly clear,
For the noble possessor of Orme.

LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.

Dear Mr. Punch, Mount Street, Grosvenor Square.

Once more I am back in my London " pied-d-terre "—(but
how it can be apied-d-TERRE, I don't quite know, considering it's a
flat on the fourth floor !—ridiculous language French is to be sure!)
—and very glad to get home again I assure you. I have spent the
last few weeks in the Isle of Wight, which is a British Possession in
the latitude of Spithead— (I don't know why Spithead should want
any latitude, but it seems to take a good deal!)—sacred to Tourists,
Char-d-bancs, and Pirates — the latter disguised as Lodging-
letters !

While there we suffered severely from Regattas ; which swarm in
the Island at this season, and are hotly pursued by the visitors, with
the deadly telescope. I myself was bitten once by the Regatta
Bacteria, and very painful it was. My friend, Baron Von Hodge-
mann, owner of the Anglesea, persuaded me to go on board for a
race, and we travelled the whole thirty miles sitting at an angle of
forty-five degrees, and singing the war-cry of the Royal Yictoria
Yacht Club !—

* This should really be Burgee, but then it wouldn't rhyme, and a Poet
may drop a syllable, if he or she mayn't drop an H!