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BLACK GAME.—­“Bother Morocco!” says a Sportsman.  “What’s the news from the Moors?”

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A PROSPECT OF THE TWELFTH.

(BY AN IMPRESSIONIST.)

Certainly, I can foresee my adventures.  I can tell of my march over the heather, of my delight as the breezy air sweeps over the moors, and helps to bronze my already sunburnt face!

I can fancy the chatter of the keeper as he holds my second gun, and pays me that attention which can only be wiped off by tips!  I can hear the sound of the first shot, and decipher the meaning of the initial puff of smoke!

I can see the shadows disappearing as lunchtime comes to hand.  I can recognise the cart with its goodly contents, and the girls who will sit beside us as we discuss our modest pies (hot and savoury,) and quaff our ’84.  And then I can hear the retreating footsteps as the darlings trip away, leaving us to resume our chase after the birds.

And then the shadows will grow longer, and the sun will set behind the hills in a mass of purple, red, and gold; and it will be time for us to turn our faces towards the shooting-box that will shelter us through the long watches of the summer’s night.

And lastly I can see the final halt at the poulterer’s, as we purchase the grouse to fill our bags before the journeying home.

* * * * *

A GEOGRAPHICAL THEORY.—­“Where is Liberia?” inquired one cultured person of another, a propos of Mrs. RICKS’s interview with the QUEEN.  “I’m sure I don’t know,” was the answer, “but—­judging by the name—­I should think it was exactly opposite to Siberia.”

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[Illustration:  WILLIAM THE WHEELMAN.

“’I CAN ONLY EMPHASISE THE FACT THAT I CONSIDER THAT PHYSICALLY,
MORALLY, AND SOCIALLY, THE BENEFITS THAT CYCLING CONFERS ON THE MEN
OF THE PRESENT DAY ARE ALMOST UNBOUNDED.’ (Aside.) WISH I WERE ON
A ’SAFETY’!!”]

* * * * *

MINOR MISERIES.

NO.  I.—­TO A LADY ON WHOSE TABLE-CLOTH HE HAD UPSET THE MUSTARD-POT.

  Dear Lady, in your dining-room
    I sat, a melancholy slave. 
  Your smiles could hardly chase my gloom;
    While others jested, I was grave. 
  And still you saw me sit and sit—­
    “Enough of this,” you said, “come, come,
  Be cheerful.”  While I merely bit
    A foolish, irresponsive thumb,
  And found no comfort in the act,
    And cursed myself, the clumsy Goth,
  As void of fingers as of tact,
    Who spilt the mustard on the cloth!