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! * * * * * [Illustration: '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. * * * * * [Illustration: NOTES FROM COWES "Call this pleasure? Well, all I say is, give me Staines and a fishing-punt!"] * * * * * [Illustration] NICE 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_."