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[Illustration:  UNDER WHICH THIMBLE?]

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ON MY LADY’S POODLE.

[Illustration]

  I wonder what on earth it is
    That makes me think my lady’s poodle
  (Her minion smug of solemn phiz,)
    The pink and pattern of a noodle: 
  Its eyes are deep; their look, serene;
    Its lips are sensitive and smiling;
  But oh! the gross effect, I ween,
    Is, passing measure, dull and riling.

  It is not that its locks are crisp;
    Your humble servant’s hair is crisper,
  It is not that its accents lisp;
    I, too, affect a stammered whisper: 
  Nor that a gorgeous bow it wears
    And struts with particoloured bib on;
  I like these macaronic airs;
    I’m very fond of rainbow ribbon.

  Nor can it be—­of this I’m sure—­
    Because she pampers all its wishes
  And tempts her peevish epicure
    With dainty meats in dainty dishes. 
  To tell the truth, while I’m her guest,
    My little wants and whims she studies;
  If “Beau"’s a rival, I protest
    No jealous tincture in my blood is.

  I wonder, wonder, at a loss
    To justify such wayward snarling—­
  It makes her very, very cross
    My poor opinion of her darling;
  The cause (should pride the cause withhold,
    She bodes and I deserve a scrimmage,)
  The cause is this—­she calls, I’m told,
    The little brute my “Living image!”

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LADY GAY’S SELECTIONS.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,—­My dear friend, Lady HARRIET ENTOUCAS, said to me, the other day at Kempton, when I told her to have a sovereign on Conifer:—­“My dear Lady GAY, your tips are so marvellous that I really wonder you don’t write to the papers!” Being struck with the idea, my thoughts naturally flew to you—­not only as the most gallant Editor of my acquaintance, but also as probably the only one hitherto unrepresented with a regular Turf Correspondent.

It is, therefore, with true feminine confidence that I place my services at your disposal, and, my information being of the most unreliable description (derived invariably from the owners), I feel sure that those of your readers who follow my tips will have no cause to regret their temerity, as, being like all women, nothing if not original, I intend to tip, not the probable winner, but the probable last horse in important races!

As I invariably attend all the fashionable meetings and most of the unfashionable (incognito of course the latter), it can be left to me to decide which horse was last—­thus reducing the matter to a certainty—­distinctly an object to be gained in making a bet—­whatever men may say to the contrary.