Now the long shadows of September come, And idle for a time the scribbler's pen is, He passes from the Town's discordant hum, From garrulous gossip of the kettle-drum,[38] From orators who should have been born dumb, To watch upon green lawns the girls play tennis. Robins are trilling in the faded trees, The flitting swallows of their voyage chatter, Testing their wings before they dare the seas, For Nile's dun marge or blue-girt Cyclades; The sportsman's shots come frequent on the breeze, The flying balls keep up a pleasant clatter. Croquet's a merry game for those who flirt (Who doesn't, pray--_Punch_, poet, peer, or parson?), But Tennis, when the ladies are alert, Follow the swift ball with a looped-up skirt, Strike it on high with graceful arm expert, Burns up the masculine heart with sudden arson. So, pour some icy fluid in a glass Tinged with deep mulberry stain, true work of Venice: And _Mr. Punch_ will let the soft hours pass, Watching with tranquil eyes each lovely lass Flit like an Oread o'er the smooth green grass, And win his old heart as she wins at Tennis. [Footnote 38: "Drum"--a crowded social reception--dates back to the days of Pope. The Victorian "kettle-drum" was a tea-party.] _A complete Index will be found in the Fourth Volume._ PRINTED BY CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED, LA BELLE SAUVAGE, LONDON, E.C.4 F100.621 End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Mr. Punch's History of Modern England Vol. II (of IV),--1857-1874, by Charles L. Graves