lipse at Sandown!--she
was "followed home"--(racing expression--patented)--by _Lady
Westhill_ and _Lady Steephill_--so you see we were quite among the
_haut-ton_--though some of us had never heard of these aristocratic
thorough-breds before!

And so the Jersey Goodwood is once more over!--and we have again from
the springy turf of the Solent--(a most insecure footing)--caught in
the flush of the sunlight the gleaming white sails of the vessels on
the Goodwood Downs!--(this _may_ sound a little wrong--but I prefer it
to using a more stereotyped and matter-of-fact description).

As to the racing of next week--I have not the faintest idea _where_ it
is, _what_ it is, or _why_ it is!--but such trifles do not disturb me,
and I will proceed to my usual prophetic utterance on the event of the
week!

Yours devotedly, LADY GAY.

THE BANK HOLIDAY STAKES SELECTION.

In the sweet month of August no longer I choose,
By the river or seaside to tarry!
Preferring, in depths of the country to lose
All chance of encounter with "'ARRY!"

* * * * *

"MINIME!"--The other day the SPEAKER admitted that he couldn't
remember the Latin for "Yes." What a lot of time, trouble, and money
our own countrymen would be spared could they only occasionally forget
that there is such a word as "Yes" in English! How many marriages,
which have ended in misery, would never have come off but for this
mischievous monosyllable! But to continue this is to be Hamletising,
and to consider too curiously. For the SPEAKER to own it, stamps him
as the genuine article, a Candid PEEL.

* * * * *

[Illustration: TROP DE ZELE.

_Clerical Customer_. "I WANT TO BUY A NICE DIAMOND BROOCH FOR MY
BETTER HALF."

_Over-anxious Shopkeeper_. "CERTAINLY, SIR. WE HAVE JUST THE VERY
THING. WE CAN ACCOMMODATE YOU ALSO FOR YOUR OTHER HALF, IF YOU WISH."
[_They did not trade._]

* * * * *

THE WAIL OF A PESSIMIST POET.

O lift me out of this weary world,
And put me on a tree,
For life is all noughts
And crosses, or thoughts
That are busy for brawl and spree!

For where is the man would strike the lyre,
Or spurn with his foot the thief,
Or melt all day,
In a Midsummer way,
At the sight of repentant grief?

No! Lift me up to a leafy bough,
Where my feet may play in the breeze,
If my hot head there