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“You know the ‘Tziganes,’ don’t you?—­those marvellous gentlemen in red coats with sleek dark singlets, exotic complexions, and bold, rolling black eyes.”—­Sunday Chronicle.

Strictly speaking, singlets, of whatever colour, should be worn under the coat.

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THE HUNTSMAN’S STORY.

  I heard the huntsman calling as he drew Threeacre Spinney;
    He found a fox and hunted him and handled him ere night,
  And his voice upon the hill-side was as golden as a guinea,
    And I ventured he’d done nicely—­most respectful and polite—­
    Jig-jogging back to kennels, and the stars were shining bright.

  Old Jezebel and Jealous they were trotting at his stirrup;
    The road was clear, the moon was up, ’twas but a mile or so;
  He got the pack behind him with a chirp and with a chirrup,
    And said he, “I had the secret from my gran’dad long ago,
    And all the old man left me, Sir, if you should want to know.

  “And he was most a gipsy, Sir, and spoke the gipsy lingos,
    But he knew of hounds and horses all as NIMROD might have know’d: 
  When we’d ask him how he did it, he would say, ’You little Gringos,
    I learnt it from a lady that I met upon the road;
    In the hills o’ Connemara was this wondrous gift bestowed.’

  “Connemara—­County Galway—­he was there in 1830;
    He was taking hounds to kennel, all alone, he used to say,
  And the hills of Connemara, when the night is falling dirty,
    Is an ill place to be left in when the dusk is turning grey,
    An ill place to be lost in most at any time o’ day.

  “Adown the dismal mountains that night it blew tremendous,
    A-sobbing like a giant and a-snorting like a whale,
  When he saw beside the sheep-track (’Holy Saints,’ says he, ‘defend us!’)
    A mighty dainty lady, dressed in green, and sweet and pale,
    And she rode an all-cream pony with an Arab head and tail.

  “Says she to him, ’Young gentleman, to you I’d be beholden
    If you’d ride along to Fairyland this night beside o’ me;
  There’s a fox that eats our chickens—­them that lays the eggs that’s golden—­
    And our little fairy mouse-dogs, ah, ’tis small account they’ll be,
    Sure it wants an advertising pack to gobble such as he!’

  “So gran’dad says, ‘Your servant, Miss,’ and got his hounds together,
    And the mountain-side flew open and they rode into the hill;
  ‘Your country’s one to cross,’ says he, and rights a stirrup-leather,
    And he found in half-a-jiffey, and he finished with a kill;
    And the little fairy lady, she was with ’em with a will.

  “Then ‘O,’ says she, ‘young man,’ says she, ’’tis lonesome here in Faerie,
    So won’t you stay and hunt with us and never more to roam,
  And take a bride’—­she looks at him—­’whose youth can never vary,
    With hair as black as midnight and a breast as white as foam?’
    And ‘Thank you, Miss,’ says gran’dad, ‘but I’ve got a wife at home!’