Punch (103.1892)

220

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[November 12, 1892.

short in the skirt, and displaying the very neatest and smallest pair
of ankles that ever were seen. And your dear little nose is just a
leetle—not red, no, certainly not red, but just delicately pink on its
jolly little tip, having gallantly braved the north wind without a
veil. To call you a bore is absurd. But men are such brutes, and it
is as certain as that two and two (even at our public schools) make
four, that ladies are—what shall I say ?—not so popular as they
always ought to be when they come amongst shooters engaged in
their sport. Even at lunch they are not always welcomed with
enthusiasm. This is, perhaps, wrong, for, after all, they can do
no harm there.

My darling young lady, I
reply, your letter has made a
deep impression on me. Dr.
Johnson' did, as you say, live

many years ago; so many years | off Me with a Stick!
ago, in fact, that (as a little

CONVERSATIONAL HINTS FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS.

Lunch {continued).—How delightful it is to awaken interest in
the female breast, to make the heart of lovely woman go pit-pat, as
her eyes read the words one ?s pen has written. Even in drawing-
rooms and boudoirs, it seems, bright eyes have marked these attempts
to teach a correct conversational manner to those who engage in game-
shooting. Here is one letter of the hundreds that Mr. Punch has
one by one pressed to his gallant lips with an emotion that might,
perhaps, not have been expected from one of his years and discretion.
Rut how shall time or caution prevail against universal love ? The

name burns on with an unquenchable ardour. Beautiful beings, the I But, darling Hose,' I am sure Feed was perfectly right to send
Punchoi your affections is true
to you all. He takes you in a
lump and loves you. He takes
you singly and adores you. pas-
sionately but paternally. Here,
therefore, is the letter :—

Dearest Mr. Punch,
"We have all been so de-
lighted to read your articles
about shooting. I read them to
Papa after dinner in the draw-
ing-room. Mamma says she
doesn't understand such mat-
ters ; but, of course, things have
altered very much since her
young days, as she is always
telling us. Now I want to ask
your opinion about an impor-
tant point. Do you think girls
ought to go out and join the
men at lunch ? We all think it
so delightful, but Feed, my
eldest brother, makes himself
extremely disagreeable about it
—at least he did till last week,
when Emily Rayburn, who is
my very dearest friend, was
staying with us. Then he told
me we might come for a change,
but we were to go home again
directly afterwards. Generally
he says that women are a bore
out shooting. Please tell us,
dear Mr. Punch, what you
really think about it.

With much love, yours
always, Rose Larking.

P.S.—I am so glad you write
the word "lunch," and not
"luncheon." I told Fred that
—but he went to Johnson'' s Dic-
tionary, and read out some-
thing about "Lunch" being
only a colloquial form of '' lun-
cheon." Still, I don't care a
little bit. Dr. Johnson lived
so long ago, and couldn't pos-
sibly know everything—could
heP R. L.

you home again directly the
meal was over, though it must
have wrung his manly heart to
part from Emily Rayburn.
Even, I, the veteran sportsman
Punch, have qualms when a
poor bird has been merely
wounded, or when a maimed
hare shrieks as the dog seizes it.
I cannot, as I say, discuss the
ethics of the question. The
Rood shot is the merciful shot.
But, after all, in killing of
every kind, whether by the gun
or the butcher's knife, there is
an element of cruelty, And
therefore, my pretty Rose, you
must keep away from the
shooting. Besides, have I not
seen a good shot "tailor"
half-a-dozen pheasants in
succession, merely because a
chattering lady—not a dear,
pleasant little lump of delight
like you, Rose—had posted
herself beside him, and made
him nervous ? By all means
come to lunch if you must,
but, equally by all means,
leave the guns to themselves
afterwards. As for ladies who
themselves shoot, why the best
I can wish them is, that they
should promptly shoot them-
selves. I can't abide them.
Away with them!

But, in order that the pur-
pose of this work may be
fulfilled/"' and the conversa-
tional method inculcated, I
here give a short " Ladies-at-
lunch - dialogue," phonogra-
phically recorded, as a party
of five guns was approaching
the place of lunch, at about
D30 p.m.

First Sportsman {addressing
his companion). Now then,
Tommy, my son, just smarten
yourself up a bit, and' look
pretty. The ladies are coming
to lunch.

Tommy {horror - struck.)
What t The women coming to
lunch ? No, hang it all, you 're
joking. Say you are—do! _

friend of Mr. Punch once said, with a sigh, on hearing that someone | First Sp. Joking ? Not I! I tell you six solid women are going
would have been one hundred and fifty years old if he had been alive to lunch with us. I heard 'em all talking about it after breakfast,
at the present day) he must be " a orfle old angel now." The word and thinking it would be, oh, such fun ! By the way, I suppose you
"lunch" is short, crisp, and appetising. The word "luncheon" is of j know you've got a hole in your knickerbockers,
a certain pomposity, which, though it may suit the mansions of the : Tommy {looking down, and perceiving a huge and undisguisable
great, is out of place when applied to the meals of active sportsmen, rent). Good Heavens ! so I have. I must have done it getting over

A PRIZE.

Little Spi§'kins. "Don't you think one might get up a Dance here
some evening ?"

Young Brown. "Not Girls enough, my Boy!"

Little Spiffkins. "Not Girls enough! Why, I'ye got to keep 'em

So we will continue, if you please, to speak of " lunch." And now
for your question. My charming Rose, this little treatise does not
profess to do anything more than teach young sportsmen how to con-
verse. I assume that they have learnt shooting from other instructors.
And as to the detailsof shooting-parties, how they should be composed,
what they should do or avoid, and how they should bear themselves
generally—the subject is too great, too solemn, too noble to be
entered upon with a light heart. At any rate, that is not my pur-
pose here. It was rude—very rude—of Fred to say you were a
bore—and I am sure it wasn't true. I can picture you tripping

the last fence. Isn't it awful ? I can't show like this. Have you
got any pins ?

[ The Keeper eventually promises that there shall be pins at the
farm-house.

Another Sportsman {bringing up the rear with a companion).
Hope we shan't be long over lunch. There's a lot of ground to
cover this afternoon, and old Sykes tells me they've got a splendid

head of birds this year, I always think- {He breaks off suddenly;

an expression of intense alarm comes over his face.) Why, what's
that ? No, it can't be. Yes, by Jingo, it is. It's the whole blessed

daintily along with your pretty companions to the lunch rendez- \ lot of women come out to lunch, my wife and all. Well, poor
vans. You are dressed in a perfectly fitting, tailor-made dress, cut! thing, she couldn't help it. Had to come with the rest, I suppose