The ’ound didn’t seem much to mind it; immortal, I spose, like Miss D.; Then we ’ad a slap arter the deer, and she’d very soon nailed two or three. I wos out of it, couldn’t pot one, and it needled me orful, dear boy, To be licked by a gal, though a goddess, and armed with a archery toy!

  Her togs wos a little bit quisby—­for moors as ain’t pitched in the Moon,
  And there wasn’t no pic-nic, dear boy! I got peckish and parched pooty
      soon.
  She lapped from a brook, and her hoptics went wide as a cop on the watch,
  When I hinted around rayther square, I should like a small drop of cold
      Scotch.

  Well, well; I must cut this yarn short.  We’d a turn at Moon Sports like all
      round,
  Wish I’d time to describe our Big Boar Hunt—­DIANNER’s pet pastime I found,
  Can’t say it was mine; bit too risky.  Pigsticking in Ingy may suit
  White Shikkarries or Princes, dear boy, but yer Boar is a nasty big brute.

  Too much tusk for my taste!  ’Owsomever DIANNER she speared him to rights,
  And I dropped from the tree I’d shinned up when the boar had made tracks
      for my tights. 
  “Bravo, Miss DIANNER!” I sez.  “You are smart, for a gal, with that spear. 
  But didn’t yer get jest a mossel alarmed—­fur yer ’ARRY, my dear?”

  Put it hamorous like, with a wink, snugging up to the lady, I did;
  For she’d found a weak spot in my ’art, this cold classical gal, and no kid. 
  I’d been ’aving a pull at my flask, up that tree, and her pluck and blue eyes
  Made me feel a bit spoony; in fact I was mashed.  But, O wot a surprise!

  “Alarmed? about you, Sir!  And why?” sez DIANNER, with eyes all aflash,
  I sez, “Don’t yer remember Adonis, love, Venus’s boar-’unting mash? 
  No wonder the lady felt fainty like; fear for a sweetheart, yer see. 
  And—­well, if I’m not quite Adonis, you found your Enjimmyun in Me!

[Illustration]

  “One more, only one, dear DIANNER,” I sez.  And I aimed for a kiss,
  I made for her lips, a bee-line.  But great snakes, my dear boy, wot a miss! 
  Hit me over the ’ed with her boar-spear, a spanker, she did, like a shot. 
  Don’t you never spoon goddesses, CHARLIE; you’ll find it a dashed sight
      too ’ot!

  “Adonis!” she cried.  “Nay, Actaeon!  And his shall be also thy fate. 
  There is Punch looking on, he’ll approve!” And she jest set ’er dogs
      on me, straight! 
  “Way-oh!  Miss DIANNER!” I yells.  “No offence!  Don’t be ’ard on a bloke! 
  Beg yer pardon, I’m sure!” Here a hound nipped my calf like a vice,
      and—­I woke.

  Leastways, I persoom it wos waking, if ’tother was sleep and a dream,
  But I feel a bit moon-struck, dear boy.  Spooks abound, and things ain’t
      what they seem.
  Mister Punch sez, “it served me quite right.”  Well, next time
      correspondence he’d carry
  With satterlites, spesh’ly the Moon, he had better not drop upon ’ARRY.