ept "a little bit up my sleeve," so to
speak, for the Brightest, Lightest, and Leadingest of all papers
yclept the one, Sir, that bears your honoured name. After quoting from
Mr. CHAMBERLAIN at Holloway (not _in_ Holloway) on June 17, 1885,
as a gentle reminder to Mr. GOSCHEN--_their_ "Mr. G."--I observed,
"Perhaps, however, there are reasons why the 'Egyptian Skeleton'
prefers to forget the speeches of Mr. CHAMBERLAIN in 1885." It struck
me that, having already an Egyptian Skeleton, we might have as its
companion a Brummagem Skeleton, which everyone can see through, and
this sketch I beg to submit to you, _pro bono publico_. Always, _Mr.
Punch_, your most obedient "subject" (artistically),

W.V. H-RC-RT.

* * * * *

THE FETE OF FLORA.

[Illustration: First Prize--Love among the Roses.]

Were it not that the salutation were infelicitous, we should have
said, "Hail, all hail!" to the _Fete_ at the Botanical Gardens,
Regent's Park, last Wednesday. Besides, they have always an Aquarius
of the name of WATERER on the premises, whose Rhododendrons are
magnificent. So we didn't say "All hail!" and there was not a single
drop, of rain, or in the attendance, to damage a charming show which
has so often been spoilt by the drop too much that has floored many a
_Fete_ of Flora. Nothing could have been prettier. Flowers of speech
are inadequate to describe the scene. "Simply lovely!" is the best
epitome of praise.

* * * * *

LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.

_The Look-out, Sheepsdoor, Kent_.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

Ascot has been too much for me! What with the excitement of racing all
day, and bezique half the night--(another sign of the times; women no
longer "play for love," but "love to play!")--to say nothing of the
constant strain on one's nerves as to what the weather was going
to do to one's gowns, I have had a severe attack of overwork, with
complicating symptoms of my old enemy, idleness!--so that, on my
return to town, my Doctor--(he's a _dear_ man, and prescribes just
what I suggest)--insisted that I should at once run down to the
Seaside to recuperate. Hence my retirement to the little fishing
village of Sheepsdoor in Kent, "far from the gadding crowd;" a most
delightfully rural and little-known resort, where we all go about in
brown canvas-shoes--(russia-leather undreamt of!)--and wear out all
our old things, utterly regardless of whether we look "_en suite_"