fibs to such an extent, that fibs are now as necessary to him as drams to the drunkard.  But DUBSON the respectable, DUBSON the dull, DUBSON the unromantic—­why does the gadfly sting him too, and impel him now and then to wonderful antics.  For was it not DUBSON who told me, only a week ago, that he had shot three partridges stone dead with one shot, and in measuring the distance, had found it to be 100 yards less two inches?  Candidly, I do not believe him; but naturally enough I was not going to be outdone, and I promptly returned on him with my well-known anecdote about the shot which ricocheted from a driven bird in front of me and pierced my host’s youngest brother—­a plump, short-coated Eton boy, who was for some reason standing with his back to me ten yards in my rear—­in a part of his person sacred as a rule plagoso Orbilio.  The shrieks of the stricken youth, I told DUBSON, still sounded horribly in my ears.  It took the country doctor an hour to extract the pellets—­an operation which the boy endured, with great fortitude, merely observing that he hoped his rowing would not be spoiled for good, as he should bar awfully having to turn himself into a dry-bob.  This story, with all its harrowing details, did I duly hammer into the open-mouthed DUBSON, who merely remarked that “it was a rum go, but you can never tell where a ricochet will go,” and was beginning upon me with a brand-new ricochet anecdote of his own, when I hurriedly departed.

Wherefore, my gay young shooters, you who week by week suck wisdom and conversational ability from these columns, it is borne in upon me that for your benefit I must treat of the Smoking-room in its connection with shooting-parties.  Thus, perhaps, you may learn not so much what you ought to say, as what you ought not to say, and your discretion shall be the admiration of a whole country-side.  “The Smoking-room:  with which is incorporated ‘Anecdotes.’” What a rollicking, cheerful, after-dinner sound there is about it.  SHABRACK might say it was like the title of a cheap weekly, which as a matter of fact, it does resemble.  But what of that?  Next week we will begin upon it in good earnest.

* * * * *

ON THE BOXING KANGAROO.

  From SMITH and MITCHELL to a Kangaroo!!! 
    The “noble art” is going up!  Whilloo! 
  Stay, though!  Since pugilist-man seems coward-clown,
  Perhaps ’tis the Marsupial coming down!

* * * * *

[Illustration:  FELINE AMENITIES.

“I’VE BROUGHT YOU SOME LACE FOR YOUR STALL AT THE BAZAAR, LIZZIE.  I’M AFRAID IT’S NOT QUITE OLD ENOUGH TO BE REALLY VALUABLE.  I HAD IT WHEN I WAS A LITTLE GIRL.”

“OH, THAT’S OLD ENOUGH FOR ANYTHING, DEAREST!  HOW LOVELY!  THANKS SO VERY MUCH!”]

* * * * *

“LE GRAND FRANCAIS.”

    ["With all his faults, M. DE LESSEPS is perhaps the most
    remarkable—­we may even say the most illustrious—­of living
    Frenchmen.”—­The Times.]