[A well-known lady dog-fancier informed a representative of the Daily Mirror that, in case of fire, she would most certainly save her dog rather than her husband.]

'Go! Sound the fire alarm!' she cried.
'My house is all ablaze inside!
'The flames are spreading far and wide;
'The air with smoke is laden!
'My darling's in an upper room!
'Oh, save him from a fiery tomb!'
Straight, as she spoke, through sparks and fume
Came brave Lieutenant Sladen.
Quoth he: 'The horsed-escape is here, ma'am;
'We'll save your husband, never fear, ma'am!'
'My husband?' she replied. 'Nay, nay!
'Don't waste your time on him, I pray,
'But turn your thoughts without delay
'To things that really matter.
'For though my weaker-half's asleep,
'A faithful lap-dog, too, I keep,
'And if I hold the former cheap,
'I idolise the latter.
'Gladly, to save the best of bow-wows,
'I'd sacrifice,' she sobbed, 'my spou-ouse!
'How prettily my nose he licks!
'(I'm speaking of the dog) and pricks
'His ears and barks, while as for tricks
'He never seems to tire, man!
'He'll balance sugar on his snout——'
From burning windows came a shout;
Her husband suddenly leaned out
And thus addressed the fireman:
'You've seen the sort of wife I cherish;
'Then be humane and—let me perish!'

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF BOSTON SCHOOL

(With apologies to Thomas Gray)

[Lord Tankerville was reported to have removed his son from Eton and sent him to school at Boston, U.S.A., where he would be known as Charles Bennet and be free from 'the kowtowing of a sycophantic crowd of pseudo-aristocrats who lick the boots of our young noblemen' at English schools!]

Ye modern spires, ye fireproof floors,
Of Boston's boarding-school,
Each grateful scion still adores
Your Hiram's homely rule;
For here no boy would ever brag
That he employed a ducal 'fag,'
His 'brolly' for to furl,
Or sent a Baronet 'up town'
To fetch his tea from 'Little Brown,'
Or caned a belted Earl!
His scorn of lords the youthful Yank
Can openly display,
For here, regardless of their rank,
The little Viscounts play.
The Earl of Byfleet's eldest son
Is known as Percival T. Bunn,
And joins the common scrum,
As daily he delights to share
With Chas. K. Grubb (Lord Woking's heir)
His wad of chewing-gum!
Here Reginald, Lord Swaffield's boy,
Protects beneath his wing
The family of Kid McCoy,
The famous Doughnut King;
While John, the Duke of Portsmouth's child
('Jawn' by his school-companions styled),
Forgets his kith and kin,
And soon begets a taste, alack!
For 'highballs,' 'cocktails,' 'canvasback,'
For clams and terrapin!
To each his fancies! I have done.
And yet, for auld lang syne,
Though Boston suits another's son,
Eton I'll choose for mine!
And though he won't acquire a twang,
Or get the hang of Yankee slang,
Like others of his class,
My son I'll seek to Anglicise;
For, if Lord Tankerville be wise,
I'd sooner be an ass!

THE SPORTING SPIRIT

['The emotional surprise and the unexpected suddenness in the rise of game require great accuracy, rapidity, and nerve control, and experience is in my favour that there are some who are improved in these essentials of good shooting by a little alcohol at lunch.'—Dr. T. Claye Shaw in the Times.]

It once was my habit to miss ev'ry rabbit
At which I might happen to fire;
I wasted each cartridge despatching some partridge
To die in a neighbouring shire.
By nature ungainly, I struggled, but vainly,
A duck or a woodcock to kill,
And cut a poor figure when pressing the trigger
With far greater vigour than skill,
Until, all at once, I discovered a tonic,
And now (so to speak) my adroitness is chronic!
A flask of old brandy I always keep handy,
And, after an opportune nip,
My wits are collected, my aim is corrected,
My weapon with firmness I grip.
I notice, untroubled, that all things are doubled;
Two outlines I hazily trace
Of ev'ry cock-pheasant, and shooting grows pleasant
When each single bird is a brace;
Each teal has a twin, ev'ry black-cock a brother,
And so I am bound to hit one or the other!
My methods may flurry those neighbours in Surrey
Whose eyes I persistently wipe,
And startle the Vicar whom once, when in liquor,
I shot, in mistake for a snipe;
At Bolton or Belvoir my faithful retriever
Retrieves more than any dog there;
No bag is so heavy as that which I levy
At Welbeck, so what do I care?
Sustained by old brandy, in covert or stubble,
My fame (and my game) I can daily redouble!

PERSPECTIVE