There are many fools that worry this world, Fools old, and fools who're young; Fools with fortunes, and fools without, Fools who dogmatise, fools who doubt, Fools who snigger, and fools who shout, Fools who never know what they're about, And fools all cheek and tongue; Fools who're gentlemen, fools who're cads, Fools who're greybeards, and fools who're lads; Fools with manias, fools with fads, Fools with cameras, fools with tracts, Fools who deny the stubbornest facts, Fools in theories, fools in acts; Fools who write Theosophist books, Fools who believe in Mahatmas and spooks; Fools who prophesy--races and Tophets-- Bigger fools who believe in prophets; Fools who quarrel, and fools who quack; In fact, there are all sorts of fools in the pack, Fools fat, thin, short, and tall; But of all sorts of fools, the fool with a gun (Who points it at someone--of course, "in fun"-- And fools around till chance murder is done) Is the worsest fool of them all! * * * * * [Illustration: HIS FIRST PARTRIDGE SHOOT] * * * * * [Illustration: SPORTING EXTRAORDINARY--THE OLD DOG POINTS CAPITALLY "I tell yer wot it is, Sam! If this fool of a dog is a going to stand still like this here in every field he comes to, we may as well shut up shop, for we shan't find no partridges!"] * * * * * [Illustration: TRIALS OF A NOVICE.--"Confess now. Have you ever hit a haystack, even?" "Well, of course I have." "What did you aim at?"] * * * * * THE FIRST OF SEPTEMBER The First of September, remember The day of supremest delight. Get ready the cartridge, the partridge Must fall in the stubble ere night. The breechloader's ready, and steady The dog that we taught in old days; He's firm to his duty, a beauty That cares for but one person's praise. He's careful in stubble, no trouble In turnips, he's keen as a man; But looks on acutely, and mutely Seems saying, "Shoot well, if you can!" They flash from the cover--what lover Of sport does not thrill as they rise In feathered apparel? Each barrel Kills one, as the swift covey flies. So on through the morning, still scorning All rest until midday has past, When lunch should be present, and pleasant That _al fresco_ breaking of fast. One pipe, then be doing, pursuing The sport that no sport can eclipse; So homeward to dinner, a winner Of praise from the fairest of lips. * * * * * [Illustration: A HUMANE INSTINCT.--_Snob_ (_who has been making himself very objectionable_). "I say, what do you do with your game?" _Host._ "Give my friends what they want, and send the rest to market."