Punch, Or The London Charivari | Page 4

head every time he pokes his poor
nose out? It isn't fair, and it's damping all his enthusiasm!... Now,
Colonel KEMPTON, it isn't the Puppy's fault--you know your Rabbit
began it!... Hi, STELLA, hold on a bit, my Mutton wants to lie down.
Mayn't I kick it up!... DUFF, old chap, your Goose is dragging her
anchor again, back her engines a bit, or there'll be a foul.... Miss
STELLA, I--I really _don't_ think this Monkey is quite well--his teeth
are chattering in such a very.... All right, padre, only his nasty
temper--jerk the beggar's chain. More than that!

Chorus of Spectators at Lodge Gates. My word, I wonder what next the
gentry'll be up to, I dew. Ain't Miss STELLA orderin' of 'en about!
Now she's started 'en. They ain't not allowed to go 'ittin of 'en--got to
go just wheeriver the animiles want. Lor, the guse is takin his genlm'n
in among the treeses! Well, if iver I did! That theer tartus gits along,
don't he? Passon don't seem com'fable along o' that monkey. I'll back
the young sailor gent--keeps that sheep wunnerful stiddy, he do. There's
the hold peacock puttin' on a bust now. Well, well, these be fine doin's
for 'Auberk 'All, and no mistake. Make old Sir HALBERD stare if he
was 'ere, &c., &c.
The Colonel (_wrathfully to his Rabbit, which will do nothing but run
round and round him_). Stop that, will you, you little fool. Do you want
to trip me up! Of all the dashed nonsense I ever--!
_Mrs. Bangs_. My! Colonel, you do seem to have got hold of a pretty
insubordinate kind of a Rabbit, too!
The Colonel (_looking round_). Well, you aren't getting much pace out
of your Tortoise either, if it comes to that!
_Mrs. Bangs_. He puts in most of his time in stoppages for rest and
refreshment. I'm beginning to believe that old fable's a fraud. Anyway,
it's my opinion this Tortoise isn't going to beat any hare--unless it's a
jugged one.
Dick Gatling (_in front, as his Sheep halts to crop the turf in a leisurely
manner_). We've not pulled up--only lying-to to take in supplies. We're
going ahead directly. There, what did I tell you! Now she's tacking!
The Curate (_in the rear_). Poo' little Jacko, then--there, there, quietly
now! Miss STELLA, what does it mean when it gibbers like that?
(_Sotto voce._) I wonder, if I let go the chain--
_Mr. Duff_ (_hauling his Goose towards Miss CHAFFERS_). It's no
use--I can't keep this beast from bolting off the course!
_Miss C._ Do keep it away from my Puppy, at all events. I know it will

peck him, and he's perfectly happy licking my shoe--he's found out
there's sugar-candy in the varnish.
_Mr. Duff_ (_solemnly_). Yes, but I say, you know--that's all very well,
but it's not making him race, is it? Now I am getting some running out
of my Goose.
_Miss C._ Rather in-and-out-running, isn't it? (_Cries of distress from
the rear._) But what is the matter now? That poor dear Curate again!
The Curate (_in agony_). Here, I say, somebody! do help me! Miss
STELLA, do speak to your monkey, please! It's jumped on my back,
and it's pulling my hair--'ow!
[_Most of the Competitors abandon their animals and rush to the
rescue._
Dick Gatling (_coming up later_). Why on earth did you all jack up like
that? You've missed a splendid finish! My Mutton was forging ahead
like fun, when FANSHAWE's Peacock hoisted his sail, and drew
alongside, and it was neck and neck. Only, as he had more neck than
the Mutton, and stuck it out, he won by a beak. Look here, let's have it
all over again!
[_But the Monkey being up a tree, and the Colonel having
surreptitiously got rid of his Rabbit among the bracken, and the
Tortoise having retired within his shell and firmly declined to come out
again, sport is abandoned for the afternoon, to the scarcely disguised
relief of the Curate, who is prevented from remaining to tea by the
pressure of parish-work._
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE ONLY MAN IN ROTTEN ROW.
SCENE FROM THE RAKE'S PROGRESS.]
* * * * *

LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.
_Mount Street, Grosvenor Square._
DEAR MR. PUNCH,
Once more I am back in my London "_pied-à-terre_"--(but how it can
he a _pied-à-TERRE_, I don't quite know, considering it's a flat on the
fourth floor!--ridiculous language French is to be sure!)--and
very glad to get home again I assure you. I have spent the last few
weeks in the Isle of Wight, which is a British Possession in the latitude
of Spithead--(I don't know why Spithead should want any latitude, but
it seems to take a good deal!)--sacred to Tourists, _Char-à-bancs_, and
Pirates--the latter disguised as