EVERY MAN TO HIS TASTE.

Time—The very last day of the Season.

The Honourable Joe.—Well, Jack, it’s all over now. What shall you do with yourself until the Cub-Hunting comes in? I’m going to get married, you know, and I shall travel with my wife.

Lord Jack.—Yes, Joe; you always were a slow going Chap. Now, I shall buy a couple of awfully smart Terriers, and go in for Ratting in Lincolnshire. There, what do you think o’ that?

AT LINCOLN APRIL FAIR.

Poor Little Gent (about to purchase “Screw”).—But surely there’s something wrong with those Hock Joints—“Curbs,” are they not?

Dealer.—“Curbs?” Lor’ bless yer, no! There’s where All ’is jumping power is—prop-hellers, I calls ’em.

UP WITH THE YEOMANRY.

Trooper Stubbles (who has been repeatedly reprimanded by Officer for riding in advance and breaking the line).—Oi can’t help it, Squire. It’s all th’ hould Mare. Hiver sin’ oi lent ’er to a Chap to roide at th’ Easter Munoovers, she’s bin that howdacious an’ waliant oi can do nought with ’er. She weant ploo, an’ she kicks t’ pieces ivery blooming Cart she’s put to; an’ noo she weant do Soldiering unless she’s fust. Yer’ll ’ave to foind me another ’Oss by Review Day, or else mak’ a Hossifer on me.

THE REVIEW DAY.

Trooper Stubbles, as he appeared in the March Past before the Reviewing Officer.

On his return home he described the exciting scene as follows:—“Th’ wor th’ troop fust, a-galloping like mad; th’ hould Mare second, a-kicking like blazes; and then Oi a-running an’ a-hollering hoot for some un to ketch ’er; but they only called hoot, ‘Go it, Stubbles! Tak yer spurs off, an’ yer’ll be fust yet.’”

“OH! WHAT A SWINDLE!”

Chorus of Nephews and Nieces (to Stout Party on her way to the Meet of the Coaching Club).—Oh, Auntie! You said you were going to ride astride, and we’ve all come purposely to see you.