few new dishes, and I helped to entertain some of those strange aboriginal creatures called “the county.”  But the announcement one afternoon, that we were to spend the next in driving ten miles to attend a Primrose League Fete in the private grounds of a local magnate, proved too much for me.  Shall you be surprised to hear that on the following morning I received an urgent telegram recalling me to town?  My hostess was, or affected to be, overwhelmned that by my sudden departure I should miss the fete.  I knew, however, that the “dyed” girl rejoiced, and in company with the objectionable man metaphorically threw up her hat.

As I passed through the Lodge-gates on my way to the station I almost vowed that I would never pay another visit again.  But even as I write, an invitation was brought me.  It is from my Aunt.  She writes that she has taken charming rooms at Flatsands, and hopes I will go and stay with her there for a few days.  She thinks the sea air will do me good.  Perhaps it will.  I shall write at once and accept.

The odd girl out.

From our Yotting Yorick, P.A.

Aboard the Yot “Placid,” bound for Copenhagen (I hope).

Dear editor,

You told me when I set sail (I didn’t set sail myself, you understand, but the men did it for me, or rather for my friends, Mr and Mrs. Skipper, to whose kindness I owe my present position—­which is far from a secure one,—­but no matter), you said to me, Yorick Yotting has no buffoonery left in him?  I too, who was once the life of all the Lifes and Souls of a party!  Where is that party now?  Where am I?  What is my life on board?  Life!—­say existence.  I rise early; I can’t help it.  I am tubbed on deck:  deck’d out in my best towels.  So I commence the day by going to Bath. [That’s humorous, isn’t it?  I hope so.  I mean it as such.]

[Illustration]

“Send me notes of your voyage to Sweden and Norway, and the land of Hamlet.  You’ll see lots of funny things, and you’ll take a humorous view of what isn’t funny; send me your humorous views.”  Well, Sir, I sent you “Mr. Punch looking at the Midnight Sun.” pretty humorous I think ("more pretty than humorous,” you cabled to me at Bergen), and since that I have sent you several beautiful works of Art, in return for which I received another telegram from you saying, “No ‘go.’  Send something funny.”  The last I sent ("The Church-going Bell,” a pretty peasant woman in a boat—­“belle,” you see) struck me as very humorous.  The idea of people going to Church in a boat!

What was I to do?  Well—­here at last I send you something which must be humorous.  It looks like it. Mr. Punch driving in Norway, in a cariole.  Mr. Punch anywhere is humorous; and with TOBY too; though I am perfectly aware that TOBY, M.P., is in his place in the House; but then TOBY is ubarquitous.  That’s funny, isn’t it?—­see “bark” substituted for “biq,” the original word being “ubiquitous.”  This is the sort of “vuerdtwistren” at which they roar in Sweden.