THE SECOND MOUNT;

Or, The New "Galloping Squire" and the Irish Groom.

Galloping Squire (of the St. Stephen's Hunt)S-r W. H-rc-rt.
Irish GroomJ-hn M-rl-y.
Welsh HorseD-s-st-bl-shm-nt.
Irish HorseL-nd B-ll.

Galloping Squire (pounding along). Pouf! Pretty heavy going! This country doesn't seem to be what it was when I was younger, and rayther a lighter weight, in old Huntsman Billy's days. Laudator temporis acti? Well, perhaps so—perhaps so. Still, neither meets nor mounts strike me as being quite up to the old form. Some of our new men have the manners of a cheeky young chawbacon on a gate. That hard rider from the Midlands, for instance! Most of our new mounts lack the blood and pace of the horses of old times. This weedy Welsh crock for example! "Kim up, ye hugly brute!" as John Leech's huntsman put it. Ah! when Old Will took us across the Stone-Wall Country in '69 and '70, hunting was hunting, horses were horses—yes, and gentlemen of the hunt were gentlemen! Now, what with mixed fields, cocktail crocks, and false scents, the sport's no longer a sport for—persons of Plantagenet descent and patrician instincts.

However, Taffy answers gamely enough to spur and whipcord. Considering my weight and—well, other difficulties, the weedy-looking nag, is going fairly well. Fancy he'll hold out to the crest of the hill yonder, where I think I see Jack Morley with my second mount. Kim up! Yes, there's Jack, with the Irish horse he thinks so much of, and takes such pains with. Humph! Bit tired of Irish mounts myself, though mustn't mention it to Jack. 'Twas Irish horses brought Old Billy his biggest croppers after all, though he, too, was wondrous sweet on 'em. Prefer a mount from the stable of the Predominant Partner, myself, if I might have my choice—which I mustn't—worse luck! Good old Budget strain my fancy! Not over fast, perhaps, but first-rate weight-carriers, and always in at the death—or the Death Duties, as I might say, if on a Derby platform instead of a Welsh pigskin. Ha! ha! ha!

Yes, Taffy will hold on to the top of the hill—(First Reading Point)—and then for a "quick-change" to the Irish horse. If I don't lose time, and have ordinary luck, the two will carry me through, ridden alternately.

Irish Groom (meditating). Ah, here comes the Guv'nor, pounding away on Taffy. Glad to catch sight o' me and Paddy, I'll warrant. He's taken about the last ounce out o' the Welsh'un, if I'm any judge. Rides a bit lumpy, the Guv'nor does, nowadays, though his pluck's as good as ever, I must say. Well, we're ready for him, the Irish horse and me, fit as a fiddle, and groomed to a hair, though I say it as shouldn't, p'raps. Come along, my new incarnation of good old Whyte-Melville's "Galloping Squire." (Sings.)

The Galloping Squire to the saddle has got,

That saddle a heavier weight has ne'er borne;

From his stable he's drafted the pick of his lot,

(Two nags by his enemies held in foul scorn,)

One Welsh, t'other Irish; both likely to tire.

I must trust to these two! says our Galloping Squire.

He takes the Welsh horse by the head, and he sails

O'er this crossest o' countries, all ear and all eye.

He takes as they come high banks, fences, and rails;

The cramped ones he'll creep, and the fair ones he'll fly.

It's a mighty queer place that will put in the mire

That artful old horseman, our Galloping Squire.

A fast forty minutes of run and of race,

And he's glad of a change, as indeed are we all.

The two he must ride are not gluttons for pace,

Still, the slow need not stop, and the weak may not fall,

His second mount's here. He may puff and perspire,

But he's game to go on, is our Galloping Squire!

Galloping Squire (coming up and preparing to change mounts). Pouf! Oh! here you are, Jack! Sharp's the word! Quick change, and on we go again! The Welsh horse has carried me better than I expected, though I've had to bustle him along, and he's a bit blown.

[Changes mounts smartly.

Irish Groom. That's right, Squire. The Welsh 'un hasn't done so badly, but I think you'll find the Irish 'un fit as a fiddle. These Irish horses——Ah! he's off. (Looking after him, as he takes the bridle of Taffy.) Well, he'll do his best, beaten or not, blowed if he won't! Goes well, too, he does, for an old 'un! Hope Paddy'll pull him through to the end o' the run. (Sings.)

"And long may it be ere he's forced to retire,

For we breed very few like our Galloping Squire!"

[Leads off "The Welsh 'un"—for the present.

No Crops this Year!!—A startling announcement, founded upon the new rule of the Kennel Club, to the effect that after March no crop-eared dog can win one of the K. C. prizes. "Hooray!" quoth the dogs. "Full ears and no crops!"

Editor of Libellous Rag (who has just received a terrific but well-deserved kick). "Dud you mane thot?"

Colonel McMurder. "Yis, oi dud, you thunderin' villain!"

Editor. "Oh, very well, thot's all roight. Oi t'ought it moight av been wan o' thim prac-ta-cle jokes!"