I have been here for a week, but have, as yet, not been fortunate enough to see any crews. Indeed, I doubt if there are any here. A good many maniacs disport themselves every day in rickety things which look something like gigantic needles, and other people have been riding along the bank, and, very naturally, abusing them loudly for their foolhardy recklessness. But no amount of abuse causes them to desist. I have puzzled my brains to know what it all means, but I confess I can't make it out. I fancy I know a boat when I see one, and of course these ridiculous affairs can't be boats. Be good enough to send me, by return, at least £100. It's a very difficult and expensive thing to support the dignity of your paper in this town. Whiskey is very dear, and a great deal goes a very short way. Yours sincerely, THE MAN AT THE OAR. _Henley-on-Thames, July 4._ * * * * * [Illustration: AQUATICS--A COMFORTABLE RAN-DAN _Jolly Young Waterman._ "Holloa! Hi! Police! Back water, Jack! We've got into a nest of swans, and they're a pitchin' into me!"] * * * * * [Illustration: THE SERPENTINE (Gent thinks he is rowing to the admiration of everybody) _Small Boy._ "'Old 'ard, guv'n'r! And take me and my traps acrosst--will yer?"] * * * * * [Illustration: _Fiend in human shape._ "Don't feel well! Try a cigar!"] * * * * * [Illustration: Binks, who is the kindest creature possible, has undertaken to fasten up the boat and bring along the siphons. Unfortunately both sculls have gone, and his friends are out of hearing.] * * * * * [Illustration: MOAN, HEARD ON A RAMSGATE BOAT "Why didn't we go by rail?"] * * * * * MAUNDERINGS AT MARLOW (_By Our Own Æsthetic Bard_) The lilies are languid, the aspens quiver, The Sun-God shooteth his shafts of light, The ripples are wroth with the restless river; _And O for the wash of the weir at night_! The soul of the poet within him blenches At thought of plunge in the water bright, To witness the loves of the tender tenches: _And O for the wash of the weir at night_! The throstle is wooing within the thicket, The fair frog fainteth in love's affright; The maiden is waiting to ope the wicket; _And O for the wash of the weir at night_! The bargeman he knoweth where Marlow Bridge is. To pies of puppy he doth invite; The cow chews the cud on the pasture ridges; _And O for the wash of the weir at night_! So far from the roar of the seething city, The poet reposes much too quite, He trills to the Thames in a dainty ditty; _And O for the wash of the weir at night_! * * * * *