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Page 13
What with humour "contrary,"
Or ironic despair,
She denominates "airey"--
From its absence of air!
It would give _me_ the blues
Household gods to uphold
With a _Lloyd's Weekly News_
Of some fifty days old.
In a Stygian gloom,
Far from sun and ozone,
She sits locked in her room,
Uncompanioned, alone.
At a knock, at a call
How she shivers and starts!
She's "that nervous"--and "Hall
Of 'er fambly 'as 'earts."
Not till gloaming obscure
Cools hot London at last,
Hies she forth to procure
Her ideal repast.
"_A red 'erring, an inion,
Just of dripping a bite_"
--This is not my opinion,
Hers _verbatim_ I cite.
But I fancy, though loth to
Thus detract from her merits,
(And I've her solemn oath too!)
That she's "partial to sperrits."
For once suddenly coming
(She supposed me away)
I was struck by her humming
"_Ta-ra-ra Boom de Ay!_"
And not humming it only;
Also _dancing_ the same,--
This bereaved, honest, lonely
Deferential dame!
"_Ta-ra-ra Boom de Ay!_"
In my desolate hall;
I, though prone to be gay,
Didn't like it at all.
"Which," she said, "it was Fits--
The Sint Biteus"--her fling!--
Yes! The Caretaker, it's
A mysterious thing.
* * * * *
CONVERSATIONAL HINTS FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS.
(_BY MR. PUNCH'S OWN GROUSE IN THE GUN-ROOM._)
LUNCH (CONTINUED).
How well I remember a certain day in the by-gone years, when for the
first time a great truth suddenly burst upon me in all its glory. The
morning's sport had been unsuccessful. We were all fairly tired, and
some of us, in spite of the moderate temperature, were perspiring
freely. For we had been walking up late partridges most of the
morning, with just an occasional shot here and there at pheasants in
covert. Now, late partridges are perhaps the least amenable of created
things. They cherish a perfectly ridiculous conviction that nature,
in endowing them with life, intended that they should preserve it,
and consequently they hold it to be their one aim and object to fly,
whirring and cheeping, out of sight, long before even an enthusiastic
shot could have a chance of proving to them how beautifully a bird can
be missed. For some reason or other, our host had refused or had been
unable to drive the birds. One result was that we had tramped and
tramped and tramped, getting only rare shots, and doing but little
execution. Another result was, that the place was simply littered
with lost tempers, and we sat down to lunch very much out of conceit
with ourselves, our guns, our cartridges, the keepers, the dogs, and
everything else. The pleasant array of plates and glasses, and the
savoury odours of the meats mitigated, but did not dispel the frowns.
Then suddenly there dropped down amongst us, as it were from the
sky, the Great Woodcock Saga. In a moment the events of the morning
were forgotten, brows cleared, tempers were picked up, and an eager
hilarity reigned over the company, while the adventures of the
wonderful bird were pursued from tree to tree, from clump to clump,
through all the zig-zags of his marvellous flight, until he finally
vanished triumphantly into the unknown.
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