* * * * *

[Illustration:  CONFUSION WORSE CONFOUNDED.

Jones.  “CON-FOUND IT ALL!  SOMEBODY’S TAKEN MY HAT, AND LEFT THIS FILTHY, BEASTLY, SHABBY OLD THING INSTEAD!”

Brown.  “A—­I BEG YOUR PARDON, BUT THAT HAPPENS TO BE MY HAT!”]

* * * * *

KEPT IN THE STABLE.

HEAD GROOM B-LF-R LOQ.:—­

  Kept in!  Yes, by thunder!  Be ’t prudence or blunder,
    Gov’s fondness for Tithe, or bad weather, or what,
  You’re kept in the stable, though fit, ay, and able
    To lead the whole field and to win by a lot. 
  A hunter I never bestrode half as clever!
    Tithe?  Pooh! He’s not in it, my beauty, with you. 
  You’ve breed, style, and mettle, and look in rare fettle. 
    If I had to settle, you know what I’d do!

  These gentlemen-riders deem all are outsiders
    Save them:  as if gent ever made A 1 jock! 
  Ah!  ADAM L. GORDON,[1] poor chap, had a word on
    Such matters.  I’ll warrant he sat like a rock,
  And went like a blizzard.  Yes, beauty, it is hard
    To eat off your head in the stable like this. 
  Too long you have idled; but wait till you’re bridled!
    The hunt of the season I swear you won’t miss,

  It has been hard weather, although, beauty, whether
    ’Tis that altogether your chance that postponed,
  Or whether Boss SOLLY committed a folly—­
    No matter!  A comelier crack he ne’er owned,
  Although ’tis I say it who shouldn’t.  The way it
    Has snowed and has frozen may be his excuse;
  But when you’re once started, deer-limbed, lion-hearted,
    I warrant, my beauty, you’ll go like the deuce.

  “A lean head and fiery, strong quarters, and wiry,
    A loin rather light, but a shoulder superb,”
  That’s GORDON’s description of Iseult. (All whip shun
    When riding such rattlers, and trust to the curb.)
  That mare was your sort, lad.  I guess there’ll be sport, lad,
    When you make strong running, and near the last jump. 
  And you, when extended, look “bloodlike and splendid.” 
    Ah! poor LINDSAY GORDON was sportsman and trump.

  I see your sleek muzzle in front!  It will puzzle
    Your critics, my boy, to pick holes in you then: 
  There’s howling “HISTORICUS,”—­he’s but a sorry cuss! 
    WEG, too, that grandest of all grand old men;
  He’s ridden some races; of chances and paces,
    Of crocks versus cracks he did ought to be judge. 
  He sees you are speedy; when MORLEY sneers “Weedy,”
    Or LAB doubts your staying, WEG knows it’s all fudge!