Is a spot unconnected with sun;
All day long we burn gas, the report is, alas!
"Bright sunshine at Westminster—none,"
Yes, none!
O Sol, you old son of a gun!
LADY GAY'S SELECTION.
Mount Street, Berkeley Square.
Dear Mr. Punch,
I am proud of being the "selection" referred to above, though, as a matter of fact it was I who "selected" Gay from the numerous sweet young things submitted for my approval during the Season when I was considered "the parti"!—but on this point I maintain a noble silence! In spite of the old Welsh proverb, "Oh, wad some Gay the giftie gie us," &c. &c., I was a bit puzzled on reading Gay's letters, at the similarity of names, but thought it only a coincidence, until she was so upset by the one she read when abroad, that she confessed everything, and asked my advice!—It's very strange how all these clever women, when they get into a fix, apply for assistance to weak "man!" eh? Now that flat-racing is over, we are "resting on our oars" for a time—(that is literally true, for the country has been mostly under water lately!)—but we shall shortly have a cut-in at steeplechasing, when Gay will doubtless have some new experiences to relate; meanwhile, allow me to subscribe myself—(I like to subscribe to everything good)—Yours explanatorily,