THE TOUR THAT NEVER WAS.

Between now and my holidays there but remain two solid days,

And thinking where I'll spend my "vac" has driven me wild with worry;

In vain have I surveyed acres of plans and maps and Bædekers,

And purchased a small library of "Handy Guides" of Murray.

Shall I, for want of better, say I'll view the Vierwaldstättersee,

Or watch the Staubbach fall in mist like web of an arachnid?

Or else, the dawn to see, get up o'ernight upon the Righi-top—

But no, I feel that Jödel-land is now a trifle hackneyed!

For a flutter at chemin-de-fer I might (the place is handy) fare

To Trouville, and along the plage a "Milor" on the spree be;

I could in Teuton musikshaus (till I of Wagner grew sick) souse

In "Hofbräu," and essay to flirt with each biergarten Hebe.

But then, if I to Norway turn, as Ibsenite I'd more weight earn—

And salmon-fishing mid the Kvæns is certainly high-class sport;

Or rumble in a tarantass o'er Russia? No, an arrant ass

I were, to go where night and day you're badgered for your passport!

I'd like (my programme's large), a panoramic glimpse of far Japan

From Fuji, and round Biwa Lake I'd in a jinrickshaw go;

Or even—for a hasty bet—I'd (like Miss Taylor) pace Thibet,

Or "blue" my surplus cash at what the Yankees call "Shecawgo."

Look here! I'll have to sham a tour (though but a humble amatoor

At yarning), as this sort of thing is giving me the fidgets!

I'll—since I've eased my intellect by tripping thus in print—elect

To stay at home and twiddle (for the sake of rhyme) my digits!

The Place for Lawn Tennis.—"Way down in Tennessee."