Business done.—­Supply in Commons.

* * * * *

HIT AND MISS.

[At Bisley, Miss LEALE, of Guernsey, has shot with considerable success.  Miss LEALE, though only nineteen years old, is a shooting member of the National Rifle Association, and has won several prizes at the meetings of the Guernsey Rifle Association.]

  The Whirligig of Time!  Its latest turn see
  In this phenomenon who hails from Guernsey. 
  We’ve often met, at pic-nics or at dances,
  Young ladies who were good at shooting—­glances! 
  And glances that, alas! have often filled us
  With tender feelings, if they have not killed us. 
  We’ve met fair maidens, who have found it pleasant
  To tramp the moors for grouse, or shoot at pheasant;
  Of some indeed who’ve had a go at grisly;
  But never—­until now—­of one at Bisley. 
  Yet there she is, and whilst her sisters, sitting
  At home, may spend their leisure time in knitting,
  She sits and shoots, nor does she very far get
  From where she aims, the centre of the target. 
  Take off your hats to her as now we name her,—­Miss
  LEALE, of Guernsey!  Gladly we acclaim her
  For Womankind (triumphant in the Schools) high
  Renown henceforth will look for in the bull’s-eye,
  And, tired of tennis, having quite with thimble done,
  Will strive for laurels at the Modern Wimbledon!

* * * * *

MONTI THE MATADOR.

(ORIGINALLY INTENDED FOR THE F-RTN-GHTLY R-V-W.)

“Yes, I’m better, and the Doctor tells me I’ve escaped once more.  That Doctor hates you—­I know it.  He has saved me—­to tell you the story—­The story I have been trying to tell to some one for thirty years.”

I was talking to Old MONTI, whose full name was MONTI DI PIETA—­as a pledge of his respectability.  He was a descendant of the Pornbrocheros del Treballos d’Oro.  He was subsequently called Monkey—­as a tribute to his character.

“I should like you to tell me,” I said, “for you must know that for years I have seen the snows on the Lagartigo, and the moonlight on the—­”

“Stop!” he cried—­“you are going to begin padding.  That will do for a magazine, not for me!” and he snapped his fingers at me.

But I was not to be put off.  He was weak—­a cripple—­and I gave him the choice of listening to a personally-conducted tour in the South of Spain, or relating his adventures.

“I will have my revenge!” he muttered.  “You shall hear my life from the beginning.  You must know, then, that sixty years ago I was born, and—­”

“Yes,” I returned, interrupting him—­“of poor parents.  Your father was coarse, your mother pious.  You learned all you could about bulls, which you kept from your father, and you were ultimately engaged as a bull-fighter—­”

“Stop, stop!” he cried.  “If you cut out about a dozen pages of my biography, at least let me explain how I saved my father.  You must know—­”