ttire, suddenly cast off the pea-jackets and bearskin wraps, and shawls
and overcoats of winter, and shine forth in all the silken flutter of
summer heat.

We know of no more humiliating sight than misshapen gentlemen playing at
jockeys. Playing at soldiers is bad enough, but playing at jockeys is
infinitely worse--above all, playing at steeple-chase jockeys, combining,
as they generally do, all the worst features of the hunting-field and
racecourse--unsympathizing boots and breeches, dirty jackets that never
fit, and caps that won't keep on. What a farce to see the great bulky
fellows go to scale with their saddles strapped to their backs, as if to
illustrate the impossibility of putting a round of beef upon a pudding
plate!

But the weighed-in ones are mounting. See, there's Jack Spraggon getting a
hoist on to Daddy Longlegs! Did ever mortal see such a man for a jockey? He
has cut off the laps of a stunner tartan jacket, and looks like a great
backgammon-board. He has got his head into an old gold-banded military
foraging-cap, which comes down almost on to the rims of his great
tortoise-shell spectacles. Lord Scamperdale stands with his hand on the
horse's mane, talking earnestly to Jack, doubtless giving him his final
instructions. Other jockeys emerge from various parts of the
farm-buildings; some out of stables; some out of cow-houses; others from
beneath cart-sheds. The scene becomes enlivened with the varied colours of
the riders--red, yellow, green, blue, violet, and stripes without end. Then
comes the usual difficulty of identifying the parties, many of whose
mothers wouldn't know them.

'That's Captain Tongs,' observes Miss Simperley, 'in the blue. I remember
dancing with him at Bath, and he did nothing but talk about
steeple-chasing.'

'And who's that in yellow?' asks Miss Hardy.

'That's Captain Gander,' replies the gentleman on her left.

'Well, I think he'll win,' replies the lady.

'I'll bet you a pair of gloves he doesn't,' snaps Miss Moore, who fancies
Captain Pusher, in the pink.

'What a squat little jockey!' exclaims Miss Hamilton, as a little dumpling
of a man in Lincoln green is led past the stand on a fine bay horse, some
one recognizing the rider as our old friend Caingey Thornton.

'And look who comes here?' whispers Miss Jawleyford to her sister, as Mr.
Sponge, having accomplished a mount without derangement of temper, rides
Hercules quietly past the stand, his whip-hand resting on hi