Part 4

_Mr. Dunk_ (_deliberately, after considering awhile_). "_Very_ nice!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

A LITTLE KNOWLEDGE.--_Miss Tomboy._ Mamma, I think those French women were beastly rude.

_Mother._ You mustn't speak like that of those ladies, it's very wrong. And how often have I told you not to say "beastly"?

_Miss Tomboy._ Well, they _were_ rude. They called me a little cabbage (_mon petit chou_). The next time they do that I shall call them old French beans.

* * * * *

* * * * *

DE GUSTIBUS----

I am an unadventurous man, And always go upon the plan Of shunning danger where I can.

And so I fail to understand Why every year a stalwart band Of tourists go to Switzerland,

And spend their time for several weeks, With quaking hearts and pallid cheeks, Scaling abrupt and windy peaks.

In fact, I'm old enough to find Climbing of almost any kind Is very little to my mind.

A mountain summit white with snow Is an attractive sight, I know, But why not see it _from below_?

Why leave the hospitable plain And scale Mont Blanc with toil and pain Merely to scramble down again?

Some men pretend they think it bliss To clamber up a precipice Or dangle over an abyss,

To crawl along a mountain side, Supported by a rope that's tied, --Not too securely--to a guide;

But such pretences, it is clear, In the aspiring mountaineer Are usually insincere.

And many a climber, I'll be bound, Whom scarped and icy crags surround, Wishes himself on level ground.

So I, for one, do not propose, To cool my comfortable toes In regions of perpetual snows,

As long as I can take my ease, Fanned by a soothing southern breeze, Under the shade of English trees.

And anyone who leaves my share Of English fields and English air May take the Alps for aught I care!

* * * * *

SPORT MOST APPROPRIATE TO THE LOCALITY.--Shooting pigeons at Monte Carlo.

* * * * *

PLEASURE A LA RUSSE.--_Q._ When does a Russian give a Polish peasant a holiday?

_A._ When he gives him _a kn_outing.

* * * * *

THE CRY OF THE HOLIDAY-LOVING CLERK.--"Easterward Ho!"

* * * * *

A DISH THAT DISAGREES WITH MOST PERSONS WHEN TRAVELLING.--The Chops of the Channel.

* * * * *

THE GREATEST BORE IN CREATION.--The Simplon Tunnel.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

TIPS FOR TRAVELLERS

Toddlekins is anxious to take his family to Mars this summer, and inquires where he can hire a speedy balloon for the purpose. He is anxious to know whether he can obtain golf there, and also whether the roads are good for bicycling. He is recommended to apply for information to the Astronomer-Royal. But why should Toddlekins trouble to go so far afield? He would be sure to find congenial society in the neighbourhood of Hanwell, and by selecting this spot as his destination, the expense of a return ticket would be saved.

ANXIOUS MOTHER.--So glad that you intend taking your dear ten children to Poppleton-on-Sea for three weeks' change of air. And all that you tell me about Timothy's pet rabbit and Selina's last attack of measles is so deeply interesting. Unfortunately I cannot answer all your questions myself, but I will print them here, so that some of my kind readers may be able to assist you. You want to know, in regard to Poppleton--

(1) Whether the pavements (if any) are stone or asphalte.

(2) What is the mean temperature, the annual rain-fall, and the death-rate.

(3) What are the Rector's "views," and if there is a comfortable pew in the church, out of draughts, calculated to hold eleven.

(4) What time the shops at Poppleton close on Saturdays.

DUBIOUS.--As you say, it _is_ difficult to make up one's mind where to spend the holidays, because there are so many places from which to choose. And you were so wise to write and ask me to give you the name of one single place which I could thoroughly recommend, and so save you all further worry. How about Brighton, Hastings, Eastbourne, Bexhill, Seaford, Cowes, Weymouth, Exmouth, Penzance, Lynton, or Tenby? I am delighted to give you this real and valuable help!

PICNIC-PARTY.--You have my full sympathy. It is most churlish of riparian owners to refuse to allow strangers to land on their property. Fancy any one objecting to having his lawn covered with broken bottles and paper bags!

OWNER.--I feel deeply for you. The way in which trippers on the river invade riverside gardens is outrageous. The bags and pieces of glass they leave about must be a gross disfigurement to your lawn.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

A MOUNTAIN RAMBLER

(_By a Returned Traveller_)

I've scanned and penned an Ode on Thy snowy glories, Snowdon My honeymoon with Helen, Was spent near "dark" Helvellyn, Afar from all the _beau monde_ I've rambled round Ben Lomond, At noontide on Ben Nevis, I've roved and read _Sir Bevis_, I've stretched each tired thin limb on Thy summit, O Plinlimmon, And once I tore my breeks On Macgillycuddy's Reeks. Those glorious mountain scalps, The tiptops of the Alps, I've seen--their pines and passes, Their glaciers and crevasses-- With fools, philosophers and wits, I've scrambled up the Ortler Spitz, Made sketches on St. Gothard, Like Turner and like Stothard, And with my _cara sposa_ Ascended Monte Rosa: But not content with Europe, I've roamed with staff and new rope As far away as Ararat, Where _savants_ say there's ne'er a rat; The Kuen Lun and Thian Shan I know as well as any man; I've boiled my evening kettle On Popocatapetl, And on the highest Andes I've sodas mixed and brandies; I've slumbered snug and cosey On silvery Potosi; I've stood on Peter Botto, A rather lonely spot; And--crowning feat of all My mountaineerings on this ball-- I've smoked--O weed for ever blest! My pipe upon Mount Everest. And now my ramble's over, Here's Shakspeare's Cliff and Dover! All Alpine risks and chances, All Ultramontane fancies, I've put away and done with; I'll stay my wife and son with, And never more will roam From Primrose Hill and home.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

A COWES WEEK EXPERIENCE

_Monday._--Dear old Bluewater--what a good fellow he is!--asks me to join his yacht, the _Sudden Jerk_, for Cowes week. Never been yachting before.

_Tuesday._--Arrive Ryde Pier, correctly (I hope) "got up"; blue serge, large brass anchor buttons, and peaked cap. Fancy Bluewater rather surprised to see how _au fait_ I am at nautical dress. "Ah! my dear fellow, delighted to see you. Come along; the gig is lying alongside the steps. One of the hands" (why "hands"?) "shall look to your traps." We scramble into gig and are rowed out to 50-ton yawl. Climb up side. Bluewater says, "Come below. Take care--two steps down, then turn round and---- Oh! by Jove! what a crack you've caught your head. Never mind, old boy, you'll soon get accustomed to it." Devoutly hope I shall _not_ get accustomed to knocking my head. Arrive at foot of "companion" (why "companion"?) stairs. Bluewater pulls aside curtains and says, "_There_ you are!" Reply, "Oh! yes, there I am. Er--is--do you lie on the shelf--oh! berth, is it!--beg pardon--or underneath it?" He explains. "You'll find it very jolly, you know; you can lie in your bunk, and look right up the companion to the sky above." "Oh! awfully jolly," I say. We repair on deck. Get under weigh to run down to Cowes. Dear old Bluewater very active. Pulls at ropes and things, shouting "leggo-your-spinach-and-broom,"[A] and other unintelligible war-cries. Stagger across deck. Breeze very fresh. "Lee oh!" shouts Bluewater; "mind the broom!"--or it might have been boom--and next moment am knocked flat on my back by enormous pole.

Arrive Cowes. Crowd of yachts. Drop anchor for night. Go below, damp face in tiny iron basin; yacht lurches and rolls all the water out over new white shoes. Enter saloon, tripping over some one's kit-bag at the door. Try to save myself by clutching at swing-table, which upsets and empties soup tureen all over my trousers. Retire, change, return. Host and I sit down and proceed to chase fried soles backwards and forwards across treacherous swing-table. "_Now_, my dear fellow isn't this jolly? Isn't this worth all your club dinners?" Reply "Oh, yes," enthusiastically. Privately, should prefer club in London. Weather gets worse. Try to smoke. Don't seem to care for smoking, somehow. Feel depressed, and ask dear old Bluewater to describe a sailor's grave. Tries to cheer me up by saying, "Don't waste the precious moments, my friend, on such sad subjects. You are not born to fill a seaman's grave. There's a class of man not born to be drowned, you know." Then he laughs heartily. Try to smile; fail. Pitching and rocking motion increases. Retire early and lie down on shelf. Fall off twice. Manage to reach perch again. Weather gets worse. Shall never sleep with noise of trampling on deck and waves washing yacht's sides. Shall never---- Sudden misgiving. _Am_ I going to be----? Oh! no, must be passing dizziness. It cannot possibly be.... IT IS!!!

Am rowed ashore, bag and baggage, next morning. Dear old Bluewater tries to keep me from going, and says, "What, after all, _is_ sea-sickness?" Dear old Bluewater must be an ass. Confound old Bluewater!

[Footnote A: Qy. spinnaker boom.--ED.]

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

AN UNCONGENIAL SPOT FOR TEETOTALERS.--Barmouth.

* * * * *

A MAN WHO BEATS ABOUT THE BUSH.--An Australian.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

HOLIDAY FARE IN CORNWALL

A Roll on the billow, A Loaf by the shore, A Fig for fashion, And Cream galore!

* * * * *

THE ROAD TO THE NIAGARA FALLS.--_Via Dollarosa._

* * * * *

WHERE THE FELLAH'S SHOE PINCHES.--Where the corn used to be--in Egypt.

* * * * *

* * * * *

BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.

* * * * *