withhold,

She bodes and I deserve a scrimmage,)

The cause is this—she calls, I'm told,

The little brute my "Living image!"

LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,—My dear friend, Lady HARRIET ENTOUCAS, said to me, the other day at Kempton, when I told her to have a sovereign on Conifer:—"My dear Lady GAY, your tips are so marvellous that I really wonder you don't write to the papers!" Being struck with the idea, my thoughts naturally flew to you—not only as the most gallant Editor of my acquaintance, but also as probably the only one hitherto unrepresented with a regular Turf Correspondent.

It is, therefore, with true feminine confidence that I place my services at your disposal, and, my information being of the most unreliable description (derived invariably from the owners), I feel sure that those of your readers who follow my tips will have no cause to regret their temerity, as, being like all women, nothing if not original, I intend to tip, not the probable winner, but the probable last horse in important races!

As I invariably attend all the fashionable meetings and most of the unfashionable (incognito of course the latter), it can be left to me to decide which horse was last—thus reducing the matter to a certainty—distinctly an object to be gained in making a bet—whatever men may say to the contrary.

An ancestor of mine (the poet of the name)—having transmitted to me a spark of his genius—I propose to give my selections in verse—select verse in fact, and will now in concluding my letter, give my tip for the probable last horse in the Derby—(which, by the way, happens in this case to be a mare—I repeat—I am nothing if not original!)—and, before doing so, I should like to express my sympathy with the Duke of WESTMINSTER and JOHN PORTER, who have indeed had an Orme-ful of trouble with the unfortunate erstwhile Derby Favourite, which would undoubtedly have been my selection had he not been scratched! Yours devotedly,

LADY GAY.

"THE TIP."

HYDE PARK CORNER.

(MAY, 1892.)

FAIR TRADERS.

Lady friend of my wife's wants us to "try her tea"! Seems she's started (with two other Ladies) as Firm of Tea Merchants in City. What are we coming to? Or rather, what are male Tea Merchants coming to? Mr. Registrar BROUGHAM, most likely. In incautious moment—as I was out—wife promised to give her an order for a couple of pounds of her "best Ceylon Mixture."

Tried it. Never tasted such vile stuff! Wife agrees, and asks me to call at the Firm's Offices and see if they haven't got anything with more Ceylon and less Mixture in it. Don't much like the job. How can one blow up a woman whom one will have to meet in one's own drawing-room, calling?

Have looked in. Must say that Tea-dealeress is better than her tea. Really quite an attractive person. The three of them gave me afternoon tea in a little sanctum behind the shop, and chatted most pleasantly. My wife's friend the head of Firm. Said the Ceylon Mixture was a mistake—really intended for kitchen use—but as they've only just started business, their stocks have got jumbled together. She hoped—quite penitently—that I would "overlook the error."

What could I say? What I did was to order a whole box of their "Incomparable Congou," at four shillings a pound.

Wife (when I tell her of this) seems surprised. Says "she won't send me shopping again." But can one call this cosy—this tea-cosy—social visit to three accomplished women by the vulgar term "shopping "?

Wife incautiously mentions that she is "out of Coffee." Gives me an excuse to call on Firm again, and see if they sell Coffee too. Yes, they do. Head of Firm more fascinating than ever. Asks me "if I would mind, as a very great favour, mentioning her tea to all my City friends? She knows I have great influence in the City." Says this with winning smile. Query—is not Mincing Lane rather an appropriate locality for Lady Tea-dealers?

Later. Wife has forbidden my ever going to Mincing Lane again! Says the box of "Incomparable Congou" was mere "dust." So are my hopes!

A DENTIST'S WAITING-ROOM.