'Thet's just wot I wants ter do, Liza!' 'Shut it!' she answered cruelly, and drew his arm away from her waist. The horses scampered on, and the man behind blew his horn with vigour. 'Don't bust yerself, guv'nor!' said one of the passengers to him when he made a particularly discordant sound. They drove along eastwards, and as the hour grew later the streets became more filled and the traffic greater. At last they got on the road to Chingford, and caught up numbers of other vehicles going in the same direction--donkey-shays, pony-carts, tradesmen's carts, dog-carts, drags, brakes, every conceivable kind of wheel thing, all filled with people, the wretched donkey dragging along four solid rate-payers to the pair of stout horses easily managing a couple of score. They exchanged cheers and greetings as they passed, the 'Red Lion' brake being noticeable above all for its uproariousness. As the day wore on the sun became hotter, and the road seemed more dusty and threw up a greater heat. 'I am getting 'ot!' was the common cry, and everyone began to puff and sweat. The ladies removed their cloaks and capes, and the men, following their example, took off their coats and sat in their shirt-sleeves. Whereupon ensued much banter of a not particularly edifying kind respecting the garments which each person would like to remove--which showed that the innuendo of French farce is not so unknown to the upright, honest Englishman as might be supposed. At last came in sight the half-way house, where the horses were to have a rest and a sponge down. They had been talking of it for the last quarter of a mile, and when at length it was observed on the top of a hill a cheer broke out, and some thirsty wag began to sing 'Rule Britannia', whilst others burst forth with a different national ditty, 'Beer, Glorious Beer!' They drew up before the pub entrance, and all climbed down as quickly as they could. The bar was besieged, and potmen and barmaids were quickly busy drawing beer and handing it over to the eager folk outside. THE IDYLL OF CORYDON AND PHYLLIS. Gallantry ordered that the faithful swain and the amorous shepherdess should drink out of one and the same pot. ''Urry up an' 'ave your whack,' said Corydon, politely handing the foaming bowl for his fair one to drink from. Phyllis, without replying, raised it to her lips and drank deep. The swain watched anxiously. ''Ere, give us a chanst!' he said, as the pot was raised higher and higher and its contents appeared to be getting less and less. At this the amorous shepherdess stopped and handed the pot to her lover. 'Well, I'm dashed!' said Corydon, looking into it; and added: 'I guess you know a thing or two.' Then with courtly grace putting his own lips to the place where had been those of his beloved, finished the pint. 'Go' lumme!' remarked the shepherdess, smacking her lips, 'that was somethin' like!' And she put out her tongue and licked her lips, and then breathed deeply.