_Friend_ (_from town_). "O, I say, old fellow, let's go back and have a game o' billiards, or else I'm quite sure I shall shoot the other one! They keep getting in the way so!"] * * * * * [Illustration: HINTS TO BEGINNERS.--Lion hunting. Be quite sure when you go looking for a lion, that you really want to find one.] * * * * * [Illustration: THE POET GOETH GUNNING Hot work "Hare up!"] * * * * * THE GROUSE THAT JACK SHOT (_A Solemn Tragedy of the Shooting Season_) This is the Grouse that _Jack_ shot. This the friend who expected the Grouse that _Jack_ shot. This is the label addressed to the friend who expected the Grouse that _Jack_ shot. This is the Babel where lost was the label addressed to the friend, &c. This is the porter who "found" the "birds" in the Babel where lost was the label, &c. This is the dame with the crumpled hat, wife of the porter who "found" the "birds," &c. This is the cooking-wench florid and fat of the dame with the crumpled hat, &c. This is the table where diners sat, served by the cooking-maid florid and fat of the dame with the crumpled hat, &c. This is the _gourmand_ all forlorn, who dreamed of the table where diners sat, served by the cooking-wench florid and fat, &c. This is the postman who knocked in the morn awaking the _gourmand_ all forlorn from his dream of the table, &c. And this is _Jack_ (with a face of scorn), thinking in wrath of "directions" torn from the parcel by railway borne, announced by the postman who knocked in the morn, awaking the _gourmand_ all forlorn, who dreamed of the table where diners sat, served by the cooking-wench florid and fat of the dame with the crumpled hat, wife of the porter who "found" the "birds" in the Babel where lost was the label addressed to the friend who expected the Grouse that _Jack_ shot! MORAL. If in the Shooting Season you some brace of birds would send (As per letter duly posted) to a fond expectant friend, Pray remember that a railway is the genuine modern Babel, And be very very careful _how you fasten on the label_! * * * * * [Illustration: A BLANK DAY.--"Well, dear, did you get anything?" "Not a thing! I only fired once, and that was more out of spite than anything else!"] * * * * * "WEDDED TO THE MOOR" The sportive M.P., when the Session is done, Is off like a shot, with his eye on a gun. He's like _Mr. Toots_ in the Session's hard press, Finding rest "of no consequence." Could he take less? But when all the long windy shindy is o'er, He, like _Oliver Twist_, is found "asking for _Moor_!" * * * * * A HINT IN SEASON