LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.

The Look-out, Sheepsdoor, Kent.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

My rest at the seaside has done me such a world of good that I feel more lazy than ever! But I fear I am in danger of a relapse into excitement, owing to a letter I received a few days ago from an old military friend of mine, General ELECTION, in which he asks me to lend my invaluable assistance in "canvassing" for his nephew, the Hon. CHARLIE HULLOTHERE, who is standing for Sheepsdoor.—Ah, how little did I think that my reference to "canvas" shoes in my last letter would be so prophetic! The General is very gallant, and fully appreciates the usefulness of women in canvassing; and, in order to be quite "up to date," I have ordered in a large supply of gingerbread-nuts and oyster-shells, which I observe (see daily papers) are distributed as marks of respect among Candidates and their wives!

Having also heard that a Brass Band is indispensable (the more brass it is, the better), I have made friendly overtures (musical, of course) to the Sheepsdoor Purveyors of Brassharmony, with the flattering result that they now conclude every performance with my specially composed "Election War Cry"—the refrain of which is most effective when given by a chorus of trained Constituents!—

HullLo-there!

He's the man for us;

We respect him!

We'll elect him!

And we might do wuss!!

In fact, our Candidate is very popular, and is sure to "romp in an easy winner"—which is another puzzling racing expression, as, although I've seen plenty of horses indulge in a game of romps before the start (notably, L'Abbé Morin, in the "City"), they seem to have had more than enough of it before the finish!

I hear from Newmarket, that I missed an extremely pleasant week's racing—and although my selection for the Stud Produce Stakes was rather wide of the mark, I fairly hit the bullseye—(what a painful operation this must be for the bull)—in my one "Song from the Birdcage," which I warbled in the ear of a racing friend whom I met down here; it was à propos of the July Stakes and ran thus:—

The night was dark when "Portland Bill" escaped by Chesil Beach!

And hope beat high within his heart, that he the goal might reach!

For "Milford" Haven lies in sight!—one effort and he's there!

But see!—At last—he's caught!—he's passed!—just by the Judge's Chair!

Which really remarkable prophecy was fully borne out by the race, in fact, so close a description might almost have been written after the race—a great compliment to my powers of divination!

Next week takes us to Bibury and Stockbridge. and if this hot weather continues, the motto of the Club should be, "Dum vivo Bibere"—or, freely translated—"Half the soda, please!" The race to which I propose to give my attention is the Alington Plate, and as I am nothing if not thorough, you will see that my tip is influenced by my being at the Seaside?

Yours devotedly,
LADY GAY.