MR. PUNCH AFLOAT

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE.

Some pages of this work have been moved from the original sequence to enable the contents to continue without interruption. The page numbering remains unaltered.

PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

Edited by J. A. HAMMERTON

Designed to provide in a series of
volumes, each complete in itself,
the cream of our national humour,
contributed by the masters of comic
draughtsmanship and the leading wits
of the age to "Punch," from its
beginning in 1841 to the present day.

"MR. PUNCH AFLOAT"

MR PUNCH AFLOAT

THE HUMOURS OF BOATING
AND SAILING

AS PICTURED BY
SIR JOHN TENNIEL, GEORGE DU MAURIER,
JOHN LEECH, CHARLES KEENE, PHIL MAY,
L. RAVEN-HILL, LINLEY SAMBOURNE,
G. D. ARMOUR, A. S. BOYD,
J. BERNARD PARTRIDGE, AND OTHERS.

PUBLISHED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH THE PROPRIETORS OF "PUNCH"

THE EDUCATIONAL BOOK CO. LTD.

THE PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

Twenty-five volumes, crown 8vo. 192 pages
fully illustrated
LIFE IN LONDON
COUNTRY LIFE
IN THE HIGHLANDS
SCOTTISH HUMOUR
IRISH HUMOUR
COCKNEY HUMOUR
IN SOCIETY
AFTER DINNER STORIES
IN BOHEMIA
AT THE PLAY
MR. PUNCH AT HOME
ON THE CONTINONG
RAILWAY BOOK
AT THE SEASIDE
MR. PUNCH AFLOAT
IN THE HUNTING FIELD
MR. PUNCH ON TOUR
WITH ROD AND GUN
MR. PUNCH AWHEEL
BOOK OF SPORTS
GOLF STORIES
IN WIG AND GOWN
ON THE WARPATH
BOOK OF LOVE
WITH THE CHILDREN

MR. PUNCH AT THE HELM!

(By way of Introduction)

River and sea, with their teeming summer life as we know them in Great Britain and around our coasts, have yielded a rich supply of subjects for the pens and pencils of Mr. Punch's merry men. In Stevenson's famous story of "The Merry Men," it is the cruel side of the sea that is symbolised under that ironic description; but there is no touch of gall, no sinister undertone, in the mirth of Mr. Punch's "merry men."

It may be protested that in the pages of this little book, where we have brought together for the first time all Mr. Punch's "happy thoughts" about boating and sailing, the miseries of travel by sea and the discomforts of holiday life on our inland waters are too much insisted upon. But it is as much the function of the humorist as it is the business of the philosopher to hold the mirror up to nature, and we are persuaded that it is no distorted mirror in which Mr. Punch shows us to ourselves.

After all, although as a nation we are proud to believe that Britannia rules the waves, and to consider ourselves a sea-going people, for the most of us our recollections of Channel passages and trips around our coasts are inevitably associated with memories of mal-de-mer, and it says much for our national good humour that we can turn even our miseries into jest.

Afloat or ashore, Mr. Punch is never "at sea," and while his jokes have always their point, that point is never barbed, as these pages illustrative of the humours of boating and sailing—with Mr. Punch at the helm—may be left safely to bear witness.

MR. PUNCH AFLOAT

'ARRY ON THE RIVER

Dear Charlie,

'Ot weather at last! Wot a bloomin' old slusher it's bin,

This season! But now it do look as though Summer was goin' to begin.

Up to now it's bin muck and no error, fit only for fishes and frogs,

And has not give a chap arf a chance like of sporting 'is 'oliday togs.

Sech a sweet thing in mustard and pink, quite reshershay I tell you, old man.

Two quid's pooty stiff, but a buster and blow the expense is my plan;

With a stror 'at and puggeree, Charlie, low shoes and new mulberry gloves.

If I didn't jest fetch our two gals, it's a pity;—and wasn't they loves?

We'd three chaps in the boat besides me,—jest a nice little party of six,

But they didn't get arf a look in 'long o' me; they'd no form, them two sticks.

If you'd seen me a settin' and steerin' with one o' the shes on each side,

You'd a thought me a Turk in check ditters, and looked on your 'Arry with pride.

Wy, we see a swell boat with three ladies, sech rippers, in crewel and buff,

(If I pulled arf a 'our in their style it 'ud be a bit more than enough)

Well, I tipped 'em a wink as we passed and sez, "Go it, my beauties, well done!"

And, oh lor! if you'd twigged 'em blush up you'd a seen 'ow they relished the fun.

I'm dead filberts, my boy, on the river, it ain't to be beat for a lark.

And the gals as goes boating, my pippin, is jest about "'Arry, his mark."

If you want a good stare, you can always run into 'em—accident quite!

And they carn't charge yer nothink for looking, nor put you in quod for the fright.

'Ow we chivied the couples a-spoonin', and bunnicked old fishermen's swims,

And put in a Tommy Dodd Chorus to Methodys practisin' hymns!

Then we pic-nic'd at last on the lawn of a waterside willa. Oh, my!

When the swells see our bottles and bits, I've a notion some language'll fly.

It was on the Q. T., in a nook snugged away in a lot of old trees,

I sat on a bust of Apoller, with one of the gurls on my knees!

Cheek, eh? Well, the fam'ly was out, and the servants asleep, I suppose;

For they didn't 'ear even our roar, when I chipped orf the himage's nose.

We'd soon emptied our three-gallon bottle, and Tommy he pulled a bit wild,

And we blundered slap into a skiff, and wos jolly near drownding a child.

Of course we bunked off in the scurry, and showed 'em a clean pair o' legs,

Pullin' up at a waterside inn where we went in for fried 'am and eggs.

We kep that 'ere pub all-alive-oh, I tell yer, with song and with chorus,

To the orful disgust of some prigs as wos progging two tables afore us.

I do 'ate your hushabye sort-like, as puts on the fie-fie at noise.

'Ow on earth can yer spree without shindy? It's jest wot a feller enjoys.

Quaker-meetings be jiggered, I say; if you're 'appy, my boy, give it tongue.

I tell yer we roused 'em a few, coming 'ome, with the comics we sung.

Hencoring a prime 'un, I somehow forgot to steer straight, and we fouled

The last 'eat of a race—such a lark! Oh, good lor', 'ow they chi-iked and 'owled!

There was honly one slight country-tong, Tommy Blogg, who's a bit of a hass,

Tried to splash a smart pair of swell "spoons" by some willers we 'appened to pass;

And the toff ketched the blade of Tom's scull, dragged 'im close, and jest landed 'im one!

Arter which Master Tom nussed his eye up, and seemed rayther out of the fun.

Sez the toff, "You're the pests of the river, you cads!" Well, I didn't reply,

'Cos yer see before gals, it ain't nice when a feller naps one in the eye;

But it's all bloomin' nonsense, my boy! If he'd only jest give me a look,

He'd a seen as my form was O.K., as I fancy ain't easy mistook.

Besides, I suppose as the river is free to all sorts, 'igh and low.

That I'm sweet on true swells you're aweer, but for stuck-ups I don't care a blow.

We'd a rare rorty time of it, Charlie, and as for that younger gurl, Carry,

I'll eat my old boots if she isn't dead-gone on

Yours bloomingly,

'Arry.

MAKING THE BEST OF IT

HINTS TO BEGINNERS

In punting, a good strong pole is to be recommended to the beginner.

THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER

Custom House Officer (to sufferer). "Now, sir, will you kindly pick out your luggage? It's got to be examined before you land."

OUR YACHTING EXPERIENCES

Old "Salt" at the helm. "Rattlin' fine breeze, gen'lemen."

Chorus of Yachtsmen (faintly). "Y—yes—d'lightful!"

TO PYRRHA ON THE THAMES

O Pyrrha! say what youth in "blazer" drest,

Woos you on pleasant Thames these summer eves;

For whom do you put on that dainty vest,

That sky-blue ribbon and those gigot sleeves?

"Simplex munditiis," as Horace wrote,

And yet, poor lad, he'll find that he is rash;

To-morrow you'll adorn some other boat,

And smile as kindly on another "mash."

As for myself—I'm old, and look askance

At flannels and flirtation; not for me

Youth's idiotic rapture at a glance

From maiden eyes: although it comes from thee.

The Excursion Season.—First Passenger (poetical). "Doesn't the sight o' the cerulean expanse of ocean, bearing on its bosom the white-winged fleets of commerce, fill yer with——"

Second Ditto. "Fi—— not a bit of it." (Steamer takes a slight lurch!) "Quite the contrary!"

[Makes off abruptly!

"LIFE'S LITTLE IRONIES"

(Cheerful passage in the life of a Whitsuntide Holiday maker)

MY RIVERSIDE ADWENTUR

(A Trew Fact as appened at Great Marlow on Bank Olliday)

I was setting one day in the shade,

In the butifull month of August,

When I saw a most butifull maid

A packing of eggs in sum sawdust.

The tears filled her butifull eyes,

And run down her butifull nose,

And I thort it was not werry wise

To let them thus spile her nice close.

So I said to her, lowly and gently,

"Shall I elp you, O fair lovely gal?"

And she ansered, "O dear Mr. Bentley,

If you thinks as you can, why you shall."

And her butifull eyes shone like dimans,

As britely each gleamed thro a tear,

And her smile it was jest like a dry man's

When he's quenching his thirst with sum beer.

Why she called me at wunce Mr. Bentley,

I sort quite in wain to dishcover;

Or weather 'twas dun accidently,

Or if she took me for some other.

I then set to work most discreetly,

And packed all the eggs with great care;

And I did it so nicely and neatly,

That I saw that my skill made her stare.

So wen all my tarsk was quite ended,

She held out her two lilly hands,

And shook mine, and thank'd me, and wended

Her way from the river's brite sands.

And from that day to this tho I've stayed,

I've entirely failed to diskever

The name of that brite dairy-maid

As broke thirteen eggs by the river.

Robert.

LOCKS ON THE THAMES

Sculler. "Just half a turn of the head, love, or we shall be among the rushes!"

THE STEAMER

Old Mr. Squeamish, who has been on deck for his wrapper, finds his comfortable place occupied by a hairy mossoo!

OTHERWISE ENGAGED!

(A Sentimental Fragment from Henley)

And so they sat in the boat and looked into one another's eyes, and found much to read in them. They ignored the presence of the houseboats, and scarcely remembered that there were such things as launches propelled by steam or electricity. And they turned deaf ears to the niggers, and did not want their fortunes told by dirty females of a gipsy type.

"This is very pleasant," said Edwin.

"Isn't it?" replied Angelina; "and it's such a good place for seeing all the events."

"Admirable!" and they talked of other things; and the time sped on, and the dark shadows grew, and still they talked, and talked, and talked.

At length the lanterns on the river began to glow, and Henley put on its best appearance, and broke out violently into fireworks. It was then Mrs. Grundy spied them out. She had been on the look out for scandal all day long, but could find none. This seemed a pleasant and promising case.

"So you are here!" she exclaimed. "Why, we thought you must have gone long ago! And what do you say of the meeting?"

"A most perfect success," said he.

"And the company?"

"Could not be more charming," was her reply.

"And what did you think of the racing?" Then they looked at one another and smiled. They spoke together, and observed:—

"Oh, we did not think of the racing!"

And Mrs. Grundy was not altogether satisfied.

OVERHEARD ON AN ATLANTIC LINER

She (on her first trip to Europe). "I guess you like London?"

He. "Why, yes. I guess I know most people in London. I was over there last fall!"

"VIDE UT SUPRA"

"The sad sea waves"

LEST MEN FORGET;

Or, A Girl's best Friend is the River

[This is to be a river season. Father Thames is an excellent matchmaker.—Lady's Pictorial.]

Oh, what is a maid to do

When never a swain will woo;

When Viennese dresses

And eddying tresses

And eyes of a heavenly blue,

Are treated with high disdain

By the cold and the careless swain,

When soft showered glances

At dinners and dances

Are sadly but truly vain?

Ah, then, must a maid despair?

Ah, no, but betimes repair

With her magical tresses

And summery dresses

To upper Thames reaches, where

She turns her wan cheek to the sun

(Of lesser swains she will none);

Her glorious flame,

Well skilled in the game,

Flings kisses that burn like fun

And cheeks that had lost their charm

Grow rosy and soft and warm;

Eyes lately so dull

Of sun-light are full

As masculine hearts with alarm.

For jealousy by degrees

Steals over the swain who sees

The cheek he was slighting

Another delighting,

And so he is brought to his knees.

AT THE UNIVERSITY BOAT-RACE

Extract from Miss X's letter to a friend in the country:—"Mr. Robin Blobbs offered to take us in his boat. Aunt accepted for Jenny, Fanny, Ethel, little Mary, and myself. Oh, such a time! Mr. Blobbs lost his head and his scull, and we were just rescued from upset by the police. 'Never again with you, Robin!'"

THE AMATEUR YACHTSMAN

(A Nautical Song of the Period)

I'm bad when at sea, yet it's pleasant to me

To charter a yacht and go sailing,

But please understand I ne'er lose sight of land,

Though hardier sailors are railing.

If only the ship, that's the yacht, wouldn't dip,

And heel up and down and roll over,

And wobble about till I want to get out,

I'd think myself fairly in clover.

But, bless you! my craft, though the wind is abaft,

Will stagger when meeting the ripple,

Until a man feels both his head and his heels

Reversed as if full of his tipple.

In vain my blue serge when from seas we emerge,

Though dressed as a nautical dandy;

I can't keep my legs, and I call out for "pegs"

Of rum, or of soda and brandy.

A yacht is a thing, they say, fit for a king,

And still it is not to my liking;

My short pedigree does not smack of the sea,—

I can't pose a bit like a viking.

It's all very well when there isn't a swell,

But when that comes on I must toddle

And go down below, for a bit of a blow

Upsets my un-nautical noddle.

Britannia may rule her own waves,—I'm a fool

To try the same game, but, believe me,

Though catching it hot, yet to give up my "Yot"

Would certainly terribly grieve me.

You see, it's the rage, like the Amateur Stage,

Or Coaching, Lawn-Tennis, or Hunting:

So, though I'm so queer, I go yachting each year,

And hoist on the Solent my bunting.

A Henley Toast.—"May rivals meet without any sculls being broken!"

Of Course!—The very place for a fowl—Henley!

The Journal which evidently keeps the Key of the River.—The Lock to Lock Times.

OF MALICE AFORETHOUGHT

Cheery Official. "All first class 'ere, please?"

Degenerate Son of the Vikings (in a feeble voice). "First class? Now do I look it?"

"LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE"

Next to the charming society, the best of the delightful trips on our friend's yacht is, that you get such an admirable view of the coast scenery, and you acquire such an excellent appetite for lunch.

ROBERT ON THE RIVER

It was ony a week or so ago as I was engaged perfeshnally on board a steam Yot that had been hired for about as jolly a party as I ewer remembers to have had on board a ship, and the Forreners among 'em had ewidently been brort for to see what a reel lovely River the Tems is. I must say I was glad to get away from Town, as I 'ad 'ad a shock from seeing a something dreadful on an old showcard outside of the Upraw which they tells me is now given up to Promenades. So we started from Skindel's, at Madenhed Bridge, and took 'em right up to Gentlemanly Marlow, and on to old Meddenham, and then to Henley, and lots of other butiful places, and then back to Skindel's to dinner. And a jolly nice little dinner they guv us, and sum werry good wine, as our most critical gests—and we had two Corporation gents among 'em—couldn't find not no fault with. But there's sum peeple as it ain't not of no use to try to sattisfy with butiful seenery—at least, not if they bees Amerrycains. They don't seem not to have the werry least hadmiration or respect for anythink as isn't werry big, and prefur size to buty any day of the week.

"Well, it's a nice-looking little stream enuff," says an Amerrycain, who was a board a grinnin; "but it's really quite a joke to call it a River. Why, in my country," says he, "if you asked me for to show you a River, I should take you to Mrs. Sippy's, and when we got about harf way across it, I guess you'd see a reel River then, for it's so wide that you carn't see the land on either side of it, so you sees nothink else but the River, and as that's what you wanted for to see, you carn't werry well grumble then." I shood, most suttenly, have liked for to have asked him, what sort of Locks they had in sitch a River as that, and whether Mrs. Sippy cort many wales when she went out for a day's fishing in that little River of hers, but I knows my place, and never asks inconvenient questions.

However, he was a smart sort of feller, and had 'em I must say werry nicely indeed a few minutes arterwards. We was a passing a werry butiful bit of the river called a Back Water, and he says, says he, "As it's so preshus hot in the sun, why don't we run in there and enjoy the shade for a time, while we have our lunch?" "Oh," says one of the marsters of the feast, "we are not allowed to go there; that's privet, that is." "Why how can that be?" says he, "when you told me, just now, as you'd lately got a Hact of Parliament passed which said that wherever Tems Water flowed it was open to all the world, as of course it ort to be." "Ah," said the other, looking rayther foolish, "but this is one of the xceptions, for there's another claws in the hact as says that wherever any body has had a hobstruction in the River for 20 years it belongs to him for hever, but he musn't make another nowheres."

The Amerrycain grinned as before, and said, "Well, I allers said as you was about the rummiest lot of people on the face of the airth, and this is on'y another proof of it. You are so werry fond of everythink as is old, that if a man can show as he has had a cussed noosance for twenty years, he may keep it coz he's had it so long, while all sensible peeple must think, as that's one more reeson for sweeping the noosance clean away." And I must say, tho he was a Amerrycane, that I coodn't help thinking as he was right.

It's estonishing what a remarkabel fine happy-tight a run on the butiful Tems seems to give heverybody, and wot an adwantage we has in that partickler respect over the poor Amerycans who gos for a trip on Mrs. Sippy's big River, with the wind a bloing like great guns, and the waves a dashing mountings hi. But on our butiful little steamer on our luvly little river, altho the gests had most suttenly all brekfasted afore they cum, why we hadn't started much about half-a-nour, afore three or fore on 'em came creeping down into the tite little cabin and asking for jest a cup of tea and a hegg or two, and a few shrimps; and, in less than a nour arterwards, harf a duzzen more on 'em had jest a glass or two of wine and a sandwich, and all a arsking that most important of all questions on bord a Tems Yot, "What time do we lunch?" And by 2 a clock sharp they was all seated at it, and pegging away at the Sammon and the pidgin pie, het settera, as if they was harf-starved, and ewen arter that, the butiful desert and the fine old Port Wine was left upon the table, and I can troothfully state that the cabin was never wunce quite empty till we was again doing full justice to Mr. Skindel's maynoo.

Robert.

The Universal Motto at Henley.—Open houseboat.

"EXEMPLI GRATIA"

Ancient Mariner (to credulous yachtsman). "A'miral Lord Nelson! Bless yer, I knowed him; served under him. Many's the time I've as'ed him for a bit o' 'bacco, as I might be a astin' o' you; and says he, 'Well, I ain't got no 'bacco,' jest as you might say to me; 'but here's a shillin' for yer,' says he"!!

ABOVE BRIDGE BOAT AGROUND OFF CHISWICK

Gallant Member of the L.R.C. "Can I put you ashore, mum?"

"IT'S AN ILL WIND," &c.

Rescuer. "Hold on a bit! I may never get a chance like this again!"

HAPPY THOUGHT.—DAVID COX REDIVIVUS!

BO'SEN JAMES AND THE GREAT SEA-SARPINT

Three bold sailormen all went a-sailin'

Out into the Northern Sea,

And they steered Nor'-West by three quarters West

Till they came to Norwegee.

They was three bold men as ever you'd see,

And these was their Christian names:

There was Long-legged Bill and Curly Dick,

And the third was Bo'sen James;—

And they went to catch the Great Sea-Sarpint,

Which they wished for to stop his games.

Long-legged Bill was in the main-top a-watchin'

For Sea-Sarpints, starn and grim,

When through the lee-scupper bold Curly Dick peeped,

And he says, says he, "That's him"!

Then quick down the rattlins the long-legged 'un slid—

Which pale as a shrimp was he—

While Dick he rolled forrard into the cuddy,

Where Bo'sen James happened to be,

For James he was what you'd call the ship's cook,

And he was a-makin' the tea.

Then says Curly Dick, says he, "Bless my peepers!"

(Which his words were not quite those)

"Here's the Great Sea-Sarpint a-comin' aboard,

With a wart upon his nose!

Which his head's as big as the jolly-boat,

And his mouth's as wide as the Thames,

And his mane's as long as the best bower cable,

And his eyes like blazin' flames—

And he's comin' aboard right through the lee-scupper!"

"Belay there!" says Bo'sen James.

Howsever, bold Bo'sen he went down to leeward,

While Curly Dick shook with funk;

And Long-legged Bill he hid in the caboose,

A-yellin' "We'll all be sunk!"

You might a'most heard a marlinspike drop

As Bo'sen James he looked out.

Then down through the scupper his head it went,

And there came a tremenjous shout,

"Sea-Sarpint be blowed, ye darned landlubbers!

Who's left this here mop hangin' out?"

A Word to the Y.'s at Henley.—Try again; you will be Yale-fellow, well met!

HINTS FOR HENLEY

(At the Service of Visitors wishing to be comfortable)

Take care to be invited to the best situated houseboat.

If you can, get permission to ask a few friends to join your host's party at luncheon.

Be sure to secure the pleasantest seat, the most amusing neighbour, and all the periodicals.

If you are conversationally inclined, monopolise the talk, and if you are not, plead a headache for keeping every one silent.

Mind that "No. 1" is your particular numerical distinction, and that the happiness of the rest of the world is a negligible quantity.

If you are a man, keep smoking cigars and sipping refreshing beverages until it is time to eat and drink seriously; if you are of the other sex, flirt, chatter, or sleep, as the impulse moves you.

And when you are quite, quite sure that you have nothing better to do, give a glance to the racing!

HOPE DEFERRED

Jones (who is not feeling very well). "How long did you say it would take us to get back?"

Boatman. "'Bout 'n 'our an' a 'arf agin this tide."

HOW TO ENJOY LIFE ON THE RIVER

Get a houseboat and be sure that it is water-tight and free from rats and other unpleasant visitors.

Take care that your servants have no objection to roughing it, and can turn their hands to anything usually supplied in town by the stores.

Accustom yourself to food in tins and bottles, and learn to love insects with or without wings.

Acclimatise yourself to mists and fogs and rainy days, and grow accustomed to reading papers four days old and the advertisements of out-of-date railway guides.

Try to love the pleasures of a regatta. Do not quarrel with the riparian owners or the possessors of other houseboats. Enjoy the pleasantries of masked musicians, and take an intelligent interest in the racing. Illuminate freely, and do your best to avoid a fire or an explosion. And if you have fireworks, don't sort them out with the light of a blazing squib or some illuminant of a similar character.

Be good, and mild and long-suffering. Rest satisfied with indifferently cooked food, damp sheets, and wearisome companions. And make the best of storms of rain and hurricanes of wind. In fact, bear everything, and grin when you can't laugh.

Another and a better way.—Put up at a comfortable riparian hotel, and when the weather is against you, run up to town and give a wide berth to the Thames and its miseries.

A STORY WITHOUT WORDS

Freddy's first day at Henley

NAUTICAL MANŒUVRES

(Described by a Landlubber)

Sailing in the Wind's Eye.—In order to accomplish this difficult manœuvre, you must first of all discover where the wind's eye is, and then, if it be practicable, you may proceed to sail in it. It is presumed for this purpose that the wind's eye is a "liquid" one.

Hugging the Shore.—When you desire to hug the shore, you first of all must land on it. Then take some sand and shingle in your arms, and give it a good hug. In doing this, however, be careful no one sees you, or the result of the manœuvre may be a strait-waistcoat.

Wearing a Ship.—This it is by no means an easy thing to do, and it is difficult to suggest what will make it easier. Wearing a chignon is preposterous enough, but when a man is told that he must wear a ship, he would next expect to hear that he must eat the Monument.

Boxing the Compass.—Assume a fighting attitude, and hit the compass a "smart stinger on the dial-plate," as the sporting papers call it. But before you do so, you had best take care to have your boxing-gloves on, or you may hurt your fingers.

Whistling for a Wind.—When you whistle for a wind, you should choose an air appropriate, such as "Blow, gentle gales," or "Winds, gently whisper."

Reefing the Lee-scuppers.—First get upon a reef, and then put your lee-scuppers on it. The manœuvre is so simple, that no more need be said of it.

Splicing the Main-brace.—When your main-brace comes in pieces, get a needle and thread and splice it. If it be your custom to wear a pair of braces, you first must ascertain which of them is your main one.

A Delicate Hint.

Brighton Boatman. "There's a wessel out there, sir, a labourin' a good deal, sir! Ah, sir, sailors works werry 'ard—precious 'ard lines it is for the poor fellers out there!—Precious hard it is for everybody just now. I know I should like the price of a pint o' beer and a bit o' bacca!"

Scene—A quiet nook, five miles off anywhere. Jones has gone down to the punt to fetch up the luncheon-basket, and has dropped it overboard.

PUZZLE.—What to do—or say?—except——

"THE ANCHOR'S WEIGHED"

(Sketched on an excursion steamer)

WHAT NO ONE SHOULD FORGET, IN CROSSING THE CHANNEL

To place his rugs, carpet-bags, and umbrellas on the six best seats on the boat.

To worry the captain with remarks about the state of the weather and the performance of the steamer: to observe to the steward that there is a change in the weather, and that there were more passengers the last time he crossed.

To speak to the man at the wheel, and ask him whether there was much sea on last trip.

To change his last half-crown into French money, and squabble with the steward as to the rate of exchange.

To stare at his neighbours, read aloud their names on their luggage, and remark audibly that he'll lay anything the lady with the slight twang is an American.

To repeat the ancient joke on "Back her! stop her!"

If the passage is rough, to put his feet on his neighbour's head, after appropriating all the cushions in the cabin.

To call for crockery in time. N.B.—Most important.

To groan furiously for an hour and a half, if a sufferer; or, if utterly callous to waves and their commotions, to eat beef and ham, and drink porter and brandy-and-water, during the entire voyage, with as much clattering of forks and noise of mastication as is compatible with enjoyment.

To kiss his hand, on entering the harbour, to the matelottes on the quays, or send his love in bad French to the Prefect of Police.

To struggle for a front place, in crowding off the steamer, as if the ship was on fire. And finally—

To answer every one who addresses him in good English in the worst possible French.

"What with the horse-boats," said Mrs. Ramsbotham, "the steam-lunches, the condolers, the out-ragers, the Canadian caboose, and the banyans, we had the greatest difficulty, at Henley, in getting from one side of the river to the other."

HOUSEBOAT AT THE ANCIENT HENLEIAN GAMES

THE "CENTIPEDE"

A new flexible, patent-jointed, vertebral outrigger. (Seen—and drawn—by our artist (the festive one), after an unusually scrumptious lunch on board a houseboat at Henley).

THE INFLUENCE OF PLACES

Egeria. "Surely, Mr. Swinson, it must have been here, and on such a day as this, that you wrote those lines that end—

"'Give me the white-maned steeds to ride,
The Arabs of the main'——wasn't it?"

Mr. Swinson (faintly). "N-no. Reading party—half-way up Matterhorn!"

THE SILVER TEMS!

The butiful River's a-running to Town,

It never runs up, but allers runs down,

Weather it rains, or weather it snos;

And where it all cums from, noboddy nose.

The young swell Boatmen drest in white,

To their Mothers' arts must be a delite;

At roein or skullin the gals is sutch dabs,

For they makes no Fowls and they ketches no Crabs.

The payshent hangler sets in a punt,

Willee ketch kold? I hopes as he wunt.

I wotches him long, witch I states is fax,

He dont ketch nothin but Ticklebacks.

The prudent Ferryman sets under cover,

Waiting to take me from one shore to t'other;

I calls out "Hover!" and hover he roes,

If he aint sober then hover we goes.

When it's poring with rane and a tempest a-blowin,

A penny don't seem mutch for this here rowin;

And wen the River's as ruff as the Sea,

I thinks of the two I'd sooner be me.

For when I'm at work at Ampton or Lea,

Waitin at dinner, or waitin at tea,

I gits as much from a yewthful Pair

As he gits in a day for all that there.

Then let me bless my lucky Star

That made me a Waiter and not a Tar;

And the werry nex time I've a glass of old Sherry,

I'll drink to the pore chap as roes that 'ere Ferry.

Robert.

Very Low Form on the part of Father Thames.

Boy (standing in mid-stream at Kew, to boating party). "'Ere ye are! Tow ye up to Richmond Lock! All by water, sir!"

PUNCH'S NAVAL SONGSTER

It is a well-known fact that the songs of Dibdin had a wonderful effect on the courage of the Navy, and there is no doubt that the Ben Blocks, Ben Backstays, Tom Tackles, and Tom Bowlings, were, poetically speaking, the fathers of our Nelsons, our Howes, our St. Vincents, and our Codringtons. It will be the effort of Punch's Naval Songster to do for the Thames what Dibdin did for the Sea, and to inspire with courage those honest-hearted fellows who man the steamers on the river. If we can infuse a little spirit into them—which, by the bye, they greatly want—our aim will be fully answered.

NO. I.—IT BLEW GREAT GUNS

It blew great guns when Sammy Snooks

Mounted the rolling paddles;

He met the mate with fearful looks—

They shook each other's daddles.

The word was given to let go,

The funnel gave a screamer,

The stoker whistled from below,

And off she goes, blow high, blow low,

The Atalanta steamer.

His native Hungerford he leaves,

His Poll of Pedlar's Acre,

Who now ashore in silence grieves

Because he did not take her.

There's a collision fore and aft;

Against the pier they squeeze her.

"Up boys, and save the precious craft,

We from the station shall be chaff'd—

Ho—back her—stop her—ease her."

Aha! the gallant vessel rights,

She goes just where they want her;

She nears at last the Lambeth lights,

The trim-built Atalantar.

Sam Snooks his messmates calls around;

He speaks of Poll and beauty:

When suddenly a grating sound

Tells them the vessel's run aground

While they forgot their duty.

NO. II.—BEN BOUNCE.

My name's Ben Bounce, d'ye see,

A tar from top to toe, sirs.

I'm merry, blithe and free,

A marling-spike I know, sirs.

In friendship or in love,

I climb the top-sail's pinnacle,

But in a storm I always prove

My heart's abaft the binnacle.

I fear no foreign foe,

But cruise about the river;

As up and down I go

My timbers never shiver.

When off life's end I get,

I'll make no useless rumpus;

But off my steam I'll let,

And box my mortal compass.

NO. III.—THE CAPTAIN'S ROUNDELAY.

Away, away, we gaily glide

Far from the wooden pier;

And down into the gushing tide

We drop the sailor's tear.

On—with the strong and hissing steam,

And seize the pliant wheel;

Of days gone by I fondly dream,

For oh! the tar must feel!

Quick, let the sturdy painter go,

And put the helm a-port;

Lay, lay the lofty funnel low,

And keep the rigging taut.

'Tis true, my tongue decision shows,

I act the captain's part;

But oh! there's none on board that knows

The captain's aching heart.

Upon the paddle-box all day

I've stood, and brav'd the gale,

While the light vessel made her way

Without a bit of sail.

And as upon its onward flight

The steamer cut the wave,

My crew I've order'd left and right,

My stout—my few—my brave!

NO. IV.—TO MARY.

Afloat, ashore, ahead, astern,

With winds propitious or contrary.

(I do not spin an idle yarn.)

No—no, belay! I love thee, Mary.

Amidships—on the Bentinck shrouds,

Athwart the hawse, astride the mizen,

Watching at night the fleecy clouds,

Your Harry wishes you were his'n.

Then let us heave the nuptial lead,

In Hymen's port our anchors weighing;

Thy face shall be the figure-head

Our ship shall always be displaying.

But when old age shall bid us luff,

Our honest tack will never vary,

But I'll continue Harry Bluff,

And thou my little light-built Mary.

CUMULATIVE!

Tourist (on Scotch steamer). "I say, steward, how do you expect anybody to dry their hands on this towel? It's as wet as if it had been dipped in the sea!"

Steward. "Aweel—depped or no depped, there's a hundred fouk hae used the toowl, and ye're the furrst that's grummelt!"

The Margate excursion boat arrives at 2.30 p.m., after a rather boisterous passage.

Ticket Collector (without any feeling). "Ticket, sir! Thankye, sir! Boat returns at 3!"

Mothers Pet.

"Oh, there's ma on the beach, looking at us, Alfred; let's make the boat lean over tremendously on one side!"

WATER-PARTIES

(By Mr. Punch's Vagrant)

Take four pretty girls

And four tidy young men;

Add papa and mamma,

And your number is ten.

Having ten in your party

You'll mostly be eight,

For you'll find you can count

Upon two to be late.

In the packing of hampers

'Tis voted a fault

To be rashly forgetful

Of corkscrew and salt.

Take a mayonnaised lobster,

A tasty terrine,

A salmon, some lamb

And a gay galantine.

Take fizz for the lads,

Claret-cup for the popsies,

And some tartlets with jam

So attractive to woppses.

Let the men do the rowing,

And all acquire blisters;

While the boats go zigzag,

Being steered by their sisters.

Then eat and pack up

And return as you came.

Though your comfort was nil,

You had fun all the same.

THOSE BROWNS AND THEIR LUMINOUS PAINT AGAIN

"SIC TRANSIT——"

Just starting down Southampton Water in jolly old Bigheart's yacht, The Collarbone—or Columbine? I wonder which it is? Dear old Bigheart, the best fellow in the world, and enthusiastic about yachting. So am I (theoretically, and whilst in smooth water). Try to act as nautically as possible, and ask skipper at frequent intervals "How does she bear?" Don't know what it means; but, after all, what does that matter? Skipper stares at me rather helplessly, and mutters something about "Nothe-nor-east-by-sou-sou-west." Feel that, with this lucid explanation, I ought to be satisfied, so turn away, assume cheery aspect and with a rolling gait seize the topsail-main-gaff-mizen sheet and pull it lustily, with a "Yo, heave ho!"

The pull, unfortunately, releases heavy block, which, falling on Bigheart's head, seems to quite annoy him for the minute. We plunge into Solent, and then bear away for West Channel. Skipper remarks that we shall make a long "retch" of it (absit omen). He then adds that we could "bring up"—why these unpleasantly suggestive nautical expressions?—off Yarmouth. Not wishing to appear ignorant, I ask Bigheart, "Why not make a course S.S. by E.?" He replies, "Because it would take us ashore into the R. V. Yacht Club garden," and I retire somewhat abashed.

Out in West Channel we get into what skipper calls "a bit of a bobble." Don't think I care quite so much for yachting in "bobbles." Bigheart shows me all the varied beauties of the coast, but now they fail to interest me. He says, "I say, we'll keep sailing until quite late this evening, eh? That'll be jolly!" Reply, "Yes, that'll be jolly," but somehow my voice lacks heartiness.

An hour later I was lying down—I felt tired—when Bigheart came up, and with a ring of joy in his manly tones exclaimed, "I tell you what, old man; we'll carry right on, now, through the night. We're not in a hurry, so we'll get as much sailing as we can." ... Then, with my last ounce of failing strength, I sat up and denounced him as an assassin.

After passing a night indescribable, lying on the shelf—I mean berth—I was put ashore at Portland next morning. Should like to have procured dear old Bigheart a government appointment there for seven years, as a due reward for what he had been making me suffer.

Suitable Song for Boating Men.—The last rows of summer.

SAD RESULTS OF PERSISTENT BRIDGE PLAYING AT SEA

Owner. "I'll 'eave it to you, partner!"

MY YOT

(A Confidential Carol, by a Cockney Owner, who inwardly feels that he is not exactly "in it," after all)

What makes me deem I'm of Viking blood

(Though a wee bit queer when the pace grows hot),

A briny slip of the British brood?

My Yot!

What makes me rig me in curious guise?

Like a kind of a sort of—I don't know what,

And talk sea-slang, to the world's surprise?

My Yot!

What makes me settle my innermost soul

On winning a purposeless silver pot,

And walk with a (very much) nautical roll?

My Yot!

What makes me learned in cutters and yawls,

And time-allowance—which others must tot—,

And awfully nervous in sudden squalls?

My Yot!

What makes me sprawl on the deck all day,

And at night play "Nap" till I lose a lot,

And grub in a catch-who-can sort of a way?

My Yot!

What makes me qualmish, timorous, pale,

(Though rather than own it I'd just be shot)

When the Fay in the wave-crests dips her sail?

My Yot!

What makes me "patter" to skipper and crew

In a kibosh style that a child might spot,

And tug hard ropes till my knuckles go blue?

My Yot!

What makes me snooze in a narrow, close bunk,

Till the cramp my limbs doth twist and knot,

And brave discomfort, and face blue-funk?

My Yot!

What makes me gammon my chummiest friends

To "try the fun"—which I know's all rot—

And earn the dead-cut in which all this ends?

My Yot!

What makes me, in short, an egregious ass,

A bore, a butt, who, not caring a jot

For the sea, as a sea-king am seeking to pass?

My Yot!

At Whitby.—Visitor (to Ancient Mariner, who has been relating his experiences to crowd of admirers). "Then do you mean to tell us that you actually reached the North Pole?"

Ancient Mariner. "No, sir; that would be a perwersion of the truth. But I seed it a-stickin' up among the ice just as plain as you can this spar, which I plants in the sand. It makes me thirsty to think of that marvellous sight, we being as it were parched wi' cold."

[A. M.'s distress promptly relieved by audience.

THE DANGERS OF HENLEY

Voice from the bridge above. "Oh, lor, Sarah, I've bin and dropped the strawberries and cream!"

His Fair Companion (drowsily). "I think a Canadian is the best river craft, after all, as it's less like work than the others!"

THE RULE OF THE RIVER

(As Deduced from a late Collision) The rule of the river's a mystery quite, Other craft when you're steering among, If you starboard your helm, you ain't sure you are right, If you port, you may prove to be wrong.

"THE USUAL CHANNEL"

To what snug refuge do I fly

When glass is low, and billows high,

And goodness knows what fate is nigh?—

My Cabin!

Who soothes me when in sickness' grip,

Brings a consolatory "nip,"

And earns my blessing, and his tip?—

The Steward!

When persons blessed with fancy rich

Declare "she" does not roll, or pitch.

What say—"The case is hardly sich"?—

My Senses!

What makes me long for real Free Trade,

When no Douaniers could invade.

Nor keys, when wanted, be mislaid?—

My Luggage!

What force myself, perhaps another,

To think (such thoughts we try to smother)

"The donkey-engine is our brother"?—

Our Feelings!

And what, besides a wobbling funnel,

Screw-throb, oil-smell, unstable gunwale,

Converts me to a Channel Tunnel?—

My Crossing!

'ARRY CATCHES A CRAB

AT GORING

Where is the sweetest river reach,

With nooks well worth exploring,

Wild woods of bramble, thorn and beech

Their fragrant breath outpouring?

Where does our dear secluded stream

Most gaily gleam?

At Goring.

Where sings the thrush amid the fern?

Where trills the lark upsoaring?

Where build the timid coot and hern,

The foot of man ignoring?

Where sits secure the water vole

Beside her hole?

At Goring.

Where do the stars dramatic shine

'Mid satellites adoring?

And where does fashion lunch and dine

Al fresco, bored and boring?

Where do we meet confections sweet

And toilets neat?

At Goring.

Where are regattas? Where are trains

Their noisy crowds outpouring?

And bands discoursing hackneyed strains,

And rockets skyward soaring?

Where is this urbs in rure?—where

This Cockney Fair?

At Goring.

NOTES FROM COWES

"Call this pleasure? Well, all I say is, give me Staines and a fishing-punt!"

ANICE NIGHT AT SEA

(Extracts from the Travel Diary of Toby, M.P.)

Gulf of Lyons, Friday.—The casual traveller on Continental railways, especially in France, is familiar with the official attitude towards the hapless wayfarer. The leading idea is to make the journey as difficult and as uncomfortable as possible. The plan is based on treatment of parcels or baggage. The passenger is bundled about, shunted, locked up in waiting-rooms, and finally delivered in a limp state at whatever hour and whatsoever place may suit the convenience of the railway people. Discover the same spirit dominant in management and arrangements of the sea service. Steamer from Marseilles to Tunis advertised to sail to-day at noon. On taking tickets, ordered to be on board at ten o'clock.

Why two hours before starting? Gentleman behind counter shrugs his shoulders, hugs his ribs with his elbows, holds out his hands with deprecatory gesture and repeats, "À dix heures, Monsieur."

Gestures even more eloquent than speech. Plainly mean that unless we are alongside punctually at ten o'clock our blood, or rather our passage, will be on our own heads. Spoils a morning; might have gone about town till eleven o'clock; breakfasted at leisure; sauntered on board a few minutes before noon. However, when in Marseilles chant the "Marseillaise."

Down punctually at ten; found boat in course of loading; decks full of dirt and noise, the shouting of men, the creaking of the winch, the rattling of the chains. Best thing to do is to find our cabin, stow away our baggage, and walk on the quay, always keeping our eye on the boat lest she should suddenly slip her moorings and get off to sea without us. Look out for steward. Like the Spanish fleet, steward is not yet in sight. Roaming about below, come upon an elderly lady, with a lame leg, an alarming squint, and a waist like a ship's. (Never saw a ship's waist, but fancy no mortal man could get his arm round it.) The elderly lady, who displayed signs of asthma, tells me she is the stewardess. Ask her where is our cabin. "Voilà," she says. Following the direction of her glance, I make for a berth close by. Discover I had not made allowance for the squint; she is really looking in another direction. Carefully taking my bearings by this new light, I make for another passage; find it blocked up; stewardess explains that they are loading the ship—apparently through the floor of our cabin. "Tout à l'heure," she says, with comprehensive wave of the hand.

Nothing to be done but leave our baggage lying about, go on deck, and watch the loading. Better not leave the ship. If the laborious Frenchmen in blouses and perspiration see our trunks, they will certainly pop them into the hold, where all kinds of miscellaneous parcels, cases and bales are being chucked without the slightest attempt at fitting in.

A quarter to twelve; only fifteen minutes now; getting hungry; had coffee and bread and butter early so as not to miss the boat. Watch a man below in the hold trying to fit in a bicycle with a four-hundredweight bale, a quarter-ton case, and a barrel of cement. Evidently piqued at resistance offered by the apparently frail, defenceless contrivance. Tries to bend the fore wheel so as to accommodate the cask; that failing, endeavours to wind the hind wheel round the case; failing in both efforts, he just lays the bicycle loose on the top of the miscellaneous baggage and the hatch is battened down. In the dead unhappy night that followed, when the sea was on the deck, I often thought of the bicycle cavorting to and fro over the serrated ridge of the cargo.

Ten minutes to twelve; a savoury smell from the cook's galley. Suppose déjeuner will be served as soon as we leave the dock. Heard a good deal of superiority of French cooking aboard ship as compared with British. Some compensation after all for getting up early, swallowing cup of coffee and bread and butter, and rushing off to catch at ten o'clock a ship that sails at noon. Perhaps the cloth is laid now; better go and secure places. Find saloon. Captain and officers at breakfast, their faces illumined with the ecstasy born to a Frenchman when he finds an escargot on his plate.

Evidently they are breakfasting in good time so as to take charge of the ship whilst nous autres succeed to the pleasures of the table. What's our hour, I wonder? Find some one who looks like a steward; ask him; says, "Cinq heures et demie." A little late that for breakfast, I diffidently suggest. Explains not breakfast but dinner; first meal at 5.30 p.m. Can't we have déjeuner if I pay for it? I ask, ostentatiously shaking handful of coppers in trousers-pocket. No, he says, severely; that's against the règlement.

Steamer starts in seven minutes; noticed at dock-gates women with baskets of dubious food; dash off to buy some; clutch at a plate of sandwiches, alleged to be compacted of jambon de York. Get back just as gangway is drawn up. Sit on deck and munch our sandwiches. "I know that Ham," said Sark, moodily. "It came out of the Ark."

Recommitted it to the waves, giving it the bearings for Ararat. Ate the bread and wished half-past five or Blucher would come.

A lovely day in Marseilles; not a breath of wind stirred the blue water that laved the white cliffs on which Château d'If stands. Shall have a lovely passage. Make ourselves comfortable on deck with cushions and books. Scarcely outside the harbour when a wind sprang up from S.E. dead ahead of us. The sea rose with amazing rapidity; banks of leaden-hued clouds obscured the sun-light; then the rain swished down; saloon deck cleared; passengers congregated under shelter in the saloon; as the cranky little steamer rolled and pitched, the place emptied. When at 5.30 the dinner-bell rang, only six took their places, and all declined soup. With the darkness the storm rose. If the ship could have made up its mind either to roll or to pitch, it could have been endured. It had an agonising habit of leaping up with apparent intent to pitch, and, changing its mind, rolling over, groaning in every plank. Every third minute the nose of the ship being under water, and the stern clear out, the screw leaped full half-length in the air, sending forth blood-curdling sounds. Midway came a fearsome crash of crockery, the sound reverberating above the roar of the wind, and the thud of the water falling by tons on the deck, making the ship quiver like a spurred horse.

"I begin to understand now," said Sark, "how the walls of Jericho fell."

Much trouble with the Generalissimo. When he came aboard at Marseilles he suffused the ship with pleasing sense of the military supremacy of Great Britain. Has seen more than seventy summers, but still walks with sprightly step and head erect. The long droop of his carefully-curled iron-grey moustache is of itself sufficient to excite terror in the bosom of the foe. The Generalissimo has not the word retreat in his vocabulary. He was one of the six who to-night sat at the dinner-table and deftly caught scraps of meat and vegetable as the plates flew past. But after dinner he collapsed. Thought he had retired to his berth; towards nine o'clock a faint voice from the far end of the cabin led to discovery of him prone on the floor, where he had been flung from one of the benches. We got him up, replaced him tenderly on the bench, making a sort of barricade on the offside with bolsters. A quarter of an hour later the ship gave a terrible lurch to leeward; the screw hoarsely shrieked; another batch of crockery crashed down; above the uproar, a faint voice was heard moaning, "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"

We looked at the bench where we had laid the Generalissimo, his martial cloak around him. Lo! he was not.

Guided by former experience, we found him under the table. Evidently no use propping him up. So with the cushions we made a bed on the floor, and the old warrior securely slept, soothed by the swish of the water that crossed and recrossed the cabin floor as the ship rolled to leeward or to starboard.

When the Generalissimo came aboard at Marseilles, surveying the fortifications of the harbour as if he intended storming them, his accent suggested that if not of foreign birth, he had lived long in continental courts and camps. Odd to note how, as his physical depression grew, an Irish accent softened his speech, till at length he murmured of misery in the mellifluous brogue of County Cork.

Pretty to see the steward when the flood in the saloon got half a foot deep ladle it out with a dustpan.

Tunis, Monday, 1 a.m.—Just limped in here with deck cargo washed overboard, bulwarks stove in, engine broken down, an awesome list to port, galley so clean swept the cook doesn't know it, the cabins flooded, and scarce a whole bit of crockery in the pantry. Twenty-one hours late; not bad on a thirty-six-hours' voyage.

Captain comforts us with assurance that having crossed the Mediterranean man and boy for forty years, he never went through such a storm. Have been at sea a bit myself; only once, coasting in a small steamer off Japan, have I seen—or, since it was in the main pitch dark, felt—anything like it. Generalissimo turned up at dinner last night, his moustache a little draggled, but his port once more martial. His chief lament is, that going down to his berth yesterday morning, having spent Friday night in the security of the saloon floor, he found his boots full of water. This brings out chorus of heartrending experience. Every cabin flooded; boxes and portmanteaus floating about. Sark and I spent a more or less cosy night in the saloon. To us entered occasionally one of the crew ostentatiously girt with a life-belt. Few incidents so soothing on such a night. Fortunately, we did not hear till entering port how in the terror of the night two conscripts, bound for Bizerta, jumped overboard and were seen no more.

"If this is the way they usually get to Tunis," says Sark, "I hope the French will keep it all to themselves. In this particular case, there is more in the Markiss's 'graceful concession' than meets the eye."

River Gambling.

"Punting," says the Daily News, "has become a very fashionable form of amusement on the Upper Thames." So it is at Monte Carlo. Punting is given up by all who find themselves in hopelessly low water.

Live While You May.

Timid Passenger (as the gale freshened). "Is there any danger?"

Tar (ominously). "Well, them as likes a good dinner had better hev it to-day!"

Satisfactory.

We are glad to be able to report that the gentleman who one day last week, while walking on the bank of the Thames near Henley, fell in with a friend, is doing well. His companion is also progressing favourably.

TOO SOLID

Skipper. "Did ye got the proveesions Angus?"

Angus. "Ay, ay! A half loaf, an' fouer bottles o' whiskey."

Skipper. "An' what in the woarld will ye be doin' wi' aal that bread?"

RESIGNATION

Sympathetic Old Gentleman. "I'm sorry to see your husband suffer so, ma'am. He seems very——"

Lady Passenger (faintly). "Oh dear! He isn't my husband. 'Sure I don't know who the ge'tleman is!"

A FLIGHT OF FANCY

Visitor. "Good morning: tide's very high this morning, eh?"

Ancient Mariner. "Ar, if the sea was all beer, there wouldn' be no bloomin' 'igh tides!"

A QUESTION OF HOSPITALITY AT HENLEY

"Unbidden guests are often welcomest when they are gone."—Shakespeare.

A DELICIOUS SAIL—OFF DOVER

Old Lady. "Goodness gracious, Mr. Boatman! What's that?"

Stolid Boatman. "That, mum! Nuthun, mum. Only the Artillery a prac-ti-sin', and that's one o' the cannon balls what's just struck the water!!"

POOR HUMANITY!

Bride. "I think—George, dear—I should—be better—if we walked about——"

Husband (one wouldn't have believed it of him). "You can do as you like, love. I'm very well (!) as I am!!"

Intelligent Foreigner. "I am afraid zey are not much use, zeze grand works of yours at Dovaire. Vot can zey do against our submarines?—our leetle Gustave Zêde? Ah, ze submarine e' is mos terrible, an' ze crews also—ze matelots—zey are 'eroes! Vy, every time zey go on board of him zey say goodbye to zer vives an' families!"

A TRYING MOMENT

Doris. "Oh, Jack, here come those Sellerby girls! Do show them how beautifully you can punt."

THE HEIGHT OF IMPROPRIETY

Miss Grundison, Junior. "There goes Lucy Holroyd, all alone in a boat with young Snipson, as usual! So imprudent of them!"

Her Elder Sister. "Yes; how shocking if they were upset and drowned—without a chaperon, you know!"

LOCAL OPTION

Captain of Clyde steamer (to stoker, as they sighted their port). "Slack awee, Donal', slack awee"—(he was interested in the liquors sold)—"they're drencken haurd yenoo!!"

'ARRY ON A 'OUSE-BOAT

Dear Charlie,—It's 'ot, and no error! Summer on us, at last, with a bust;

Ninety odd in the shade as I write, I've a 'ed, and a thunderin' thust.

Can't go on the trot at this tempryture, though I'm on 'oliday still;

So I'll pull out my eskrytor, Charlie, and give you a touch of my quill.

If you find as my fist runs to size, set it down to that quill, dear old pal;

Correspondents is on to me lately, complains as I write like a gal.

Sixteen words to the page, and slopscrawly, all dashes and blobs. Well, it's true;

But a quill and big sprawl is the fashion, so wot is a feller to do?

Didn't spot you at 'Enley, old oyster—I did 'ope you'd shove in your oar.

We 'ad a rare barney, I tell you, although a bit spiled by the pour.

'Ad a invite to 'Opkins's 'ouse-boat, prime pitch, and swell party, yer know,

Pooty girls, first-class lotion, and music. I tell yer we did let things go.

Who sez 'Enley ain't up to old form, that Society gives it the slip?

Wish you could 'ave seen us—and heard us—old boy, when aboard of our ship.

Peonies and poppies ain't in it for colour with our little lot,

And with larfter and banjos permiskus we managed to mix it up 'ot.

My blazer was claret and mustard, my "stror" was a rainbow gone wrong!

I ain't one who's ashamed of his colours, but likes 'em mixed midd-lingish strong.

'Emmy 'Opkins, the fluffy-'aired daughter, a dab at a punt or canoe,

Said I looked like a garden of dahlias, and showed up her neat navy blue.

Fair mashed on yours truly, Miss Emmy; but that's only jest by the way,

'Arry ain't one to brag of bong jour tunes; but wot I wos wanting to say

Is about this here "spiling the River" which snarlers set down to our sort.

Bosh! Charlie, extreme Tommy rot! It's these sniffers as want to spile sport.

Want things all to theirselves, these old jossers, and all on the strictest Q. T.

Their idea of the Thames being "spiled" by the smallest suggestion of spree,

Wy, it's right down rediklus, old pal, gives a feller the dithreums it do.

I mean going for them a rare bat, and I'm game to wire in till all's blue.

Who are they, these stuckuppy snipsters, as jaw about quiet and peace,

Who would silence the gay "constant-screamer" and line the Thames banks with perlice;

Who sneer about "'Arry at 'Enley," and sniff about "cads on the course,"

As though it meant "Satan in Eden"? I'll 'owl at sich oafs till I'm 'oarse!

Scrap o' sandwich-greased paper 'll shock 'em, a ginger-beer bottle or "Bass,"

Wot 'appens to drop 'mong the lilies, or gets chucked aside on the grass,

Makes 'em gasp like a frog in a frying-pan. Br-r-r-r! Wot old mivvies they are!

Got nerves like a cobweb, I reckon, a smart banjo-twang makes 'em jar.

I'm toffy, you know, and no flies, Charlie; swim with the swells, and all that,

But I'm blowed if this bunkum don't make me inclined to turn Radical rat.

"Riparian rights," too! Oh scissors! They'd block the backwaters and broads,

Because me and my pals likes a lark! Serve 'em right if old Burns busts their 'oards!

Rum blokes, these here Sosherlist spouters! There's Dannel the Dosser, old chap,

As you've 'eard me elude to afore. Fair stone-broker, not wuth 'arf a rap—

Knows it's all Cooper's ducks with him, Charlie; won't run to a pint o' four 'arf,

And yet he will slate me like sugar, and give me cold beans with his charf.

Sez Dannel—and dash his darned cheek, Charlie!—"Monkeys like you"—meaning Me!—

"Give the latter-day Mammon his chance. Your idea of a lark or a spree

Is all Noise, Noodle-Nonsense, and Nastiness! Dives, who wants an excuse

For exclusiveness, finds it in you, you contemptible coarse-cackling goose!

"Riparian rights? That's the patter of Ahab to Naboth, of course;

But 'tis pickles like you make it plausible, louts such as you give it force.

You make sweet Thames reaches Gehennas, the fair Norfolk Broads you befoul;

You—you, who'd make Beulah a hell with your blatant Bank Holiday howl!

"Decent property-owners abhor you; you spread your coarse feasts on their lawns,

And 'Arry's a hog when he feeds, and an ugly Yahoo when he yawns;

You litter, and ravage, and cock-sky; you romp like a satyr obscene,

And the noise of you rises to heaven till earth might blush red through her green.

"You are moneyed, sometimes, and well-tailored; but come you from Oxford or Bow,

You're a flaring offence when you lounge, and a blundering pest when you row;

Your 'monkeyings' mar every pageant, your shindyings spoil every sport,

And there isn't an Eden on earth but's destroyed when it's 'Arry's resort.

"Then monopolist Mammon may chuckle, Riparian Ahabs rejoice;

There's excuse in your Caliban aspect, your hoarse and ear-torturing voice,

You pitiful Cockney-born Cloten, you slum-bred Silenus, 'tis you

Spoil the silver-streamed Thames for Pan-lovers, and all the nymph-worshipping crew!"

I've "reported" as near as no matter! I don't hunderstand more than arf

Of his patter; he's preciously given to potry and classical charf.

But the cheek on it, Charlie! A Stone-broke! I should like to give him wot for,

Only Dannel the Dosser's a dab orf of whom 'tain't so easy to score.

But it's time that this bunkum was bunnicked, bin fur too much on it of late—

Us on 'Opkins's 'ouse-boat, I tell yer, cared nix for the ink-spiller's "slate."

I mean doin' them Broads later on, for free fishing and shooting, that's flat.

If I don't give them dash'd Norfolk Dumplings a doing, I'll eat my old 'at.

Rooral quiet, and rest, and refinement? Oh, let 'em go home and eat coke.

These fussy old footlers whose 'air stands on hend at a row-de-dow joke,

The song of the skylark sounds pooty, but "skylarking" song's better fun,

And you carn't do the rooral to-rights on a tract and a tuppenny bun.

As to colour, and kick-up, and sing-song, our party was fair to the front;

But we wosn't alone; lots of toppers, in 'ouse-boat, or four-oar, or punt,

Wos a doin' the rorty and rosy as lively as 'Opkins's lot,

Ah! the swells sling it out pooty thick; they ain't stashed by no ink-spiller's rot.

Bright blazers, and twingle-twang banjoes, and bottles of Bass, my dear boy,

Lots of dashing, and splashing, and "mashing" are things every man must enjoy,

And the petticoats ain't fur behind 'em, you bet. While top-ropes I can carry,

It ain't soap-board slop about "Quiet" will put the clear kibosh on 'Arry.

"JAM" NON "SATIS."

(A Lay of Medmenham, by a Broken-hearted Boating Man landing from the Thames, who was informed that, by the rules of the Hotel, visitors were not allowed jam with their tea if served in the garden.)

There's a river hotel that is known very well,

From the turmoil of London withdrawn,

Between Henley and Staines, where this strange rule obtains—

That you must not have jam on the lawn.

In the coffee-room still you may eat what you will,

Such as chicken, beef, mutton, or brawn,

Jam and marmalade too, but, whatever you do,

Don't attempt to eat jam on the lawn.

Young Jones and his bride sought the cool river side,

And she said, as she skipped like a fawn,

"As it is, it is nice, but 'twould be paradise,

Could we only have jam on the lawn!"