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ON MY LADY'S POODLE.

I wonder, wonder, at a loss

To justify such wayward snarlingIt makes her very, very cross

My poor opinion of her darling;

LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS. DEAR MR. PUNCH,-My dear friend, Lady HARRIET ENTOUCAS, said to me, the other day at Kempton, when I told her to have a sovereign on Conifer:-"My dear Lady GAY, your tips are so marvellous that I really wonder you don't write to the papers!" Being struck with the idea, my thoughts naturally flew to you-not only as the most gallant Editor of my acquaintance, but also as probably the only one hitherto unrepresented with a regular Turf Correspondent.

It is, therefore, with true feminine confidence that I place my services at your disposal, and, my information being of the most unreliable description (derived invariably from the owners), I feel sure that those of your readers who follow my tips will have no cause to regret their temerity, as, being like all women, nothing if not original, I intend to tip, not the probable winner, but the probable last horse in important races!

As I invariably attend all the fashionable meetings and most of the unfashionable (incognito of course the latter), it can be left to me to decide which horse was last-thus reducing the matter to a certainty-distinctly an object to be gained in making a bet-whatever men may say to the contrary.

I WONDER What on earth it is
That makes me think my lady's poodle
(Her minion smug of solemn phiz,)

The pink and pattern of a noodle:
Its eyes are deep; their look, serene;
Its lips are sensitive and smiling;
But oh the gross effect, I ween,
Is, passing measure, dull and riling.
It is not that its locks are crisp;
Your humble servant's hair is crisper,
It is not that its accents lisp;

I, too, affect a stammered whisper :
Nor that a gorgeous bow it wears

And struts with particoloured bib

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HYDE PARK CORNER.
(MAY, 1892.)

MY hansom here completely stuck;
No chance to catch my train, worse luck!
I sit and wonder:
Why should the roads be up in May ?
Who muddles matters in this way,

With bungling blunder?
What use to make a shapeless space,
Where rambling roadways interlace,
And, in the Season,

To close just what was meant to save
This block, because they want to pave?
What is the reason?

By Jove, it's like some years ago,
The traffic stopping in a row
In Piccadilly!

The Vestry does not care a pin
For all the muddle that we 're in ;
They 're much too silly.
Perhaps they'd say they meant it well.
I do not know. All I can tell
Is that I'm raving.
I'd send that Vestry down below,
Where all such good intentions go,
To make more paving!

FAIR TRADERS.

An ancestor of mine (the poet of the name) -having transmitted to me a spark of his genius-I propose to give my selections in LADY friend of my wife's wants us to "try verse-select verse in fact, and will now in her tea"! Seems she's started (with two concluding my letter, give my tip for the other Ladies) as Firm of Tea Merchants in probable last horse in the Derby-(which, City. What are we coming to? Or rather, by the way, happens in this case to be a what are male Tea Merchants coming to? mare-I repeat-I am nothing if not original!) Mr. Registrar BROUGHAM, most likely. In -and, before doing so, I should like to express incautious moment-as I was out-wife promy sympathy with the Duke of WESTMINSTER mised to give her an order for a couple of and JOHN PORTER, who have indeed had an pounds of her "best Ceylon Mixture." Orme-ful of trouble with the unfortunate erstwhile Derby Favourite, which would undoubtedly have been my selection had he not been scratched! Yours devotedly,

"THE TIP."

LADY GAY.

The Baron boldly said, "Je vais
Renvoyer cette dépêche:

A Monsieur FRY of London Town.
Un livre sur La Flèche !""

Tried it. Never tasted such vile stuff! Wife agrees, and asks me to call at the Firm's Offices and see if they haven't got anything with more Ceylon and less Mixture in it. Don't much like the job. How can one blow up a woman whom one will have to meet in one's own drawing-room, calling?

Have looked in. Must say that Tea-dealeress is better than her tea. Really quite an attractive person. The three of them gave

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me afternoon tea in a little sanctum behind the shop, and chatted most pleasantly. My wife's friend the head of Firm. Said the Ceylon Mixture was a mistake really intended for kitchen use-but as they've only just started business, their stocks have got jumbled together. She hoped-quite penitently-that I would "overlook the error." What could I say? What I did was to order a whole box of their "Incomparable Congou," at four shillings a pound.

Wife (when I tell her of this) seems surprised. Says "she won't send me shopping again." But can one call this cosy-this teacosy social visit to three accomplished women by the vulgar term "shopping"?

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Wife incautiously mentions that she is 'out of Coffee." Gives me an excuse to call on Firm again, and see if they sell Coffee too. Yes, they do. Head of Firm more fascinating than ever. Asks me "if I would mind, as a very great favour, mentioning her tea to all my City friends? She knows I have great influence in the City." Says this with winning smile. Query is not Mincing Lane rather an appropriate locality for Lady Teadealers ?

Later. Wife has forbidden my ever going to Mincing Lane again! Says the box of 'Incomparable Congou was mere dust." So are my hopes!

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FROM THE SHADES. (At the Sign of the "Castor and Pollux.")

DEAR MISTER PUNCH,Look at 'ere! This is not one of your penny papersthere was none on 'em in my time-ups and says, says it:

"The travelling expenses from America of Mr. JACKSON, who is coming to England to fight Mr. SLAVIN for the Championship of the World, are reckoned at no less than £150."

Wy, wot a delikit plarnt, wot a blooming hexotic, this "Mister" JACKSON (oh, the pooty perliteness of it!) must be! Saloon passage and fustclass fare, I persoom, for the likes of 'im. Isters and champagne, no doubt, and liquoor brandy, and sixpenny smokes! A poor old pug like me wos glad of a steak and inguns, and a 'arf ounce o' shag, with a penny clay. And as to "travelling hexpenses"-I wonder wot the Noble Captings of our day would 'ave said to the accounts laid afore your "National Sporting Club!" £2000 for the Purse, and £150 for Mister JACKSON'S travelling hexpenses!!! Oh, I'say! Pugs is a-looking up! And yet I'm told some o' your cockered-upfly-flappers carnt 'it a 'ole in a pound

o' butter, or stand a straight WHAT OUR ARTIST (THE ONE WHO PAINTS THE PRETTY

nose-ender without turning faint! Evidently funking and faking pays a jolly sight better than 'onesty and 'ard 'itting.

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66 KISS-MAMMY" PICTURES) HAS TO PUT UP WITH. Tommy. "IT'S A LITTLE GIRL, FAST ASLEEP, WITH HER DOLL IN HER ARMS!" Jimmy. "YES; AND WHEN SHE WAKES UP, WON'T SHE BE FRIGHTENED AT THAT GREAT BIG BIRD!"

Well, well, Mister Punch, I'm hout of it now, thanksbe. And I ain't sure as I could shape myself 'andy to the Slugger SULLIVAN and JEM SMITH kind o' caper. The resources o' science" is so remarkable different from what they wos in my days, and include so many new-fangled barnies as we worn't hup to. These 'ere pugilistic horchids, so to speak, wants deliket andling in the Ring, as well as hout on it, and a fair 'ammering from a 'onest bunch o' fives might spile the pooty look of 'em for their fust-clarss Saloons, Privet Boxes, and Swell Clubs. But you can tell Mister JACKSON, Eskvire, an cetrer, an cetrer, an cetrer (put it all in, please, Sir, as I vant to be perlite), that in my day I'd a bin only too 'appy to fight 'im to a finish (which mighn't ha' bin in five minutes, either, hunless he wanted it so), for-his Travelling Hexpenses!!! Yours to kommand,

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ST. JOHN'S WOOD. THESE hapless homes of middle class, Can they escape annihilation When come, in place of trees and grass, A filthy goods-yard and a station ? If such seclusion sheltered Peers, Their wealth and influence might save it; No speculator ever fears

Artists or writers such as crave it; Or if it housed the WORKING MAN, Picture the clamour if you can! Would Lords or Commons dare eject him?

His vote, his demagogues, protect him. But you, who only use your brains

The people's voice, the noble's money, Not yours-why save you from the trains ? For quiet, do you say? How funny! Perhaps you think, because in May The talk is all of Art and beauty, The Commons also think that way; Not so, they have a higher duty.

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Think of the cotton-laden

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trains

Direct from Manchester to
Asia!

Think of the Sheffield Railway's gains,

Not of your lilac or acacia!

"ONE TOUCH OF NATURE."

To introduce in a monument to a great writer a presentment of one of his most popular characters, as Mr. F. EDWIN ELWELL has done in his bronze statue of "Charles Dickens and 'Little Nell,'" is decidedly a pretty notion. The child," looking up into the face of the great creative genius, who loved this offspring of his sympathetic fancy better than did all her other admirers, is a pathetic figure, and gives to the monument a more human and less coldly mortuary aspect than, unhappily, is usual in such work. It is a "touch of Nature" that makes even the adjunct of the mausoleum akin to the quick world of the living and loving. The vivid valiant genius, who so detested and denounced the superfluous horrors with which we surround death and the tomb, would cordially have approved it, little as was his love for monumental effigies, or care for the fame that is dependent on them.

VERY "FRENCH BEFORE BREAKFAST."-It was reported in the Times that a M. ROULEZ fought four duels between nine and ten on Wednesday morning, severely wounded his four adversaries, and then, after this morning's pleasure, went about his business, that is his ordinary business, as if nothing particular had happened. To this accomplished swordsman the series of combats had been merely like taking a little gentle exercise "pour faire Rouler le sang." The combatants, as it turns out, appear to have been like Falstaff's "men in buckram."

THE LIMB AND THE LAW.-"To whom the Standard (à propos of the case of the does an amputated limb belong?" queries boy HOUSLEY, whose father demanded that the arm cut off in the Infirmary should be given up to him). The answer is clear. An amputated limb belongs to no body!

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

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THE ROYAL PARLIAMENTARY TOURNAMENT; OR, THE SESSION ENDS IN SMOKE.

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