But that's _ontry nous_, dont cher know; keep my pecker hup proper out 'ere. 'Arry never let on to them Swiss as he felt on the swivel--no fear! When I slipped down a bloomin' _crevassy_, I _did_ do a bit of a 'owl, On them glasheers, to keep your foot fair, you want claws, like a cat on the prowl. Got arf smothered in snow, and no kid, Charlie--guide swore 'twas all my hown fault, 'Cos I would dance, and sing _too-ral-li-ety_, arter he'd hordered a halt. Awful gonophs, them guides, and no herror; they don't know their place not a mite, And I'm dashed if this cad didn't laugh (with the rest), 'cos I looked sich a sight. * * * AT OSTEND.--_Biffles_ (_to Tiffles_). In this bloomin' country everyone's a prince or a marquis or a baron or a nob of some sort, so I've just shoved you down in the Visitors' Book as Lord Harthur MacOssian, and me as the Dook of FitzDazzlem! _Tiffles._ Well, now, that is a lark! What'd our missuses say? [_And what did their "Missuses" say when B. and T., held in pawn by the hotel proprietor (charging aristocratic prices), had to write home to Peckham Rye for considerable advances from the family treasuries?_ [Illustration: "'E DUNNO OÙ IL EST!" _Passenger from London_ (_as the train runs into the Gare du Nord, Paris_). "Oh--er--I say--er--garsong! Kel ay le nomme du set plass?"] SUR LA PLAGE [Illustration: AN OLD FASHIONED WATERING-PLACE] _Sur la Plage!_ and here are dresses, shining eyes, and golden tresses, Which the cynic sometimes guesses are not quite devoid of art; There's much polyglottic chatter 'mid the folks that group and scatter, And men fancy that to flatter is to win a maiden's heart. 'Tis a seaside place that's Breton, with the rocks the children get on, And the ceaseless surges fret on all the silver-shining sand; Wave and sky could scarce be bluer, and the wily Art-reviewer Would declare the tone was truer than a seascape from Brett's hand. And disporting in the waters are the fairest of Eve's daughters, Each aquatic gambol slaughters the impulsive sons of France, While they gaze with admiration at the mermaids' emulation, And the high feats of natation at fair Dinard on the Rance. There are gay casino dances, where, with Atalanta glances That ensnare a young man's fancies, come the ladies one by one; Every look is doubly thrilling in the mazes of quadrilling, And, like _Barkis_, we are willing, ere the magic waltz is done. And at night throng Fashion's forces where the merry little horses Run their aggravating courses throughout all the Season's height; Is the sea a play-provoker?--for the bard is not a joker When he vows the game of poker goeth on from morn till night.