HOW LORD COVENTRY LEAPED THE GIPSY TENT. A TRUE STORY.

I dicked Lord Coventry at the Worcester races. He kistured lester noko
grai adree the steeple-chase for the ruppeny--kek,--a sonnakai tank I
think it was,--but he nashered. It was dovo tano rye that yeck divvus in
his noko park dicked a Rommany chal's tan pash the rikk of a bor; and at
yeck leap he kistered apre the bor, and jalled right atut an' parl the
Rommany chal's tan. "Ha, kun's acai?" he shelled, as he dicked the tikno
kaulos; "a Rommany chal's tan!" And from dovo divvus he mukked akovo Rom
hatch his cammoben 'pre his puv. Tacho.

Ruzlo mushis has boro sees.

TRANSLATION.

I saw Lord Coventry at the Worcester races. He rode his own horse in the
steeple-chase for the silver--no, it was a gold tankard, I think, but he
lost.

It was that young gentleman who one day in his own park saw a Gipsy tent
by the side of a hedge, and took a flying leap over tent, hedge, and all.
"Ha, what's here?" he cried, as he saw the little brown children; "a
Gipsy's tent!" And from that day he let that Gipsy stay as much as he
pleased on his land.

Bold men have generous hearts.

GUDLO XXXVIII. OF MR BARTLETT'S LEAP.

Dovo's sim to what they pens of Mr Bartlett in Glo'stershire, who had a
fino tem pash Glo'ster an' Bristol, where he jivved adree a boro ker. Kek
mush never dicked so booti weshni juckalos or weshni kannis as yuv
rikkered odoi. They prastered atut saw the drumyas sim as kanyas. Yeck
divvus he was kisterin' on a kushto grai, an' he dicked a Rommany chal
rikkerin' a truss of gib-puss 'pre lester dumo pral a bitti drum, an'
kistered 'pre the pooro mush, puss an' sar. I jins that puro mush better
'n I jins tute, for I was a'ter yeck o' his raklis yeckorus; he had
kushti-dick raklis, an' he was old Knight Locke. "Puro," pens the rye,
"did I kair you trash?" "I mang tute's shunaben, rya," pens Locke pauli;
"I didn't jin tute sus wellin'!" So puro Locke hatched odoi 'pre dovo
tem sar his miraben, an' that was a kushti covva for the puro Locke.

TRANSLATION.

That is like what is told of Mr Bartlett in Gloucestershire, who had a
fine place near Gloucester and Bristol, where he lived in a great house.
No man ever saw so many foxes or pheasants as he kept there. They ran
across all the paths like hens. One day he was riding on a fine horse,
when he saw a Gipsy carrying a truss of wheat-straw on his back up a
little path, and leaped