"
Not till gloaming obscure
Cools hot London at last,
Hies she forth to procure
Her ideal repast.
"_A red 'erring, an inion,
Just of dripping a bite_"
--This is not my opinion,
Hers _verbatim_ I cite.
But I fancy, though loth to
Thus detract from her merits,
(And I've her solemn oath too!)
That she's "partial to sperrits."
For once suddenly coming
(She supposed me away)
I was struck by her humming
"_Ta-ra-ra Boom de Ay!_"
And not humming it only;
Also _dancing_ the same,--
This bereaved, honest, lonely
Deferential dame!
"_Ta-ra-ra Boom de Ay!_"
In my desolate hall;
I, though prone to be gay,
Didn't like it at all.
"Which," she said, "it was Fits--
The Sint Biteus"--her fling!--
Yes! The Caretaker, it's
A mysterious thing.
* * * * *
CONVERSATIONAL HINTS FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS.
(_BY MR. PUNCH'S OWN GROUSE IN THE GUN-ROOM._)
LUNCH (CONTINUED).
How well I remember a certain day in the by-gone years, when for the
first time a great truth suddenly burst upon me in all its glory. The
morning's sport had been unsuccessful. We were all fairly tired, and
some of us, in spite of the moderate temperature, were perspiring
freely. For we had been walking up late partridges most of the
morning, with just an occasional shot here and there at pheasants in
covert.
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