Her togs wos a little bit quisby--for moors as ain't pitched in the Moon, And _there wasn't no pic-nic, dear boy!_ I got peckish and parched pooty soon. _She_ lapped from a brook, and her hoptics went wide as a cop on the watch, When I hinted around rayther square, _I_ should like a small drop of cold Scotch. Well, well; I must cut this yarn short. We'd a turn at Moon Sports like all round, Wish I'd time to describe our Big Boar Hunt--DIANNER's pet pastime I found, Can't say it was _mine_; bit too risky. Pigsticking in Ingy may suit White Shikkarries or Princes, dear boy, but yer Boar is a nasty big brute. Too much tusk for my taste! 'Owsomever DIANNER she speared him to rights, And I dropped from the tree I'd shinned up when the boar had made tracks for my tights. "Bravo, Miss DIANNER!" I sez. "You are smart, for a gal, with that spear. But didn't yer get jest a mossel alarmed--fur yer 'ARRY, my dear?" Put it hamorous like, with a wink, snugging up to the lady, I did; For she'd found a weak spot in my 'art, this cold classical gal, and no kid. I'd been 'aving a pull at my flask, up that tree, and her pluck and blue eyes Made me feel a bit spoony; in fact I was mashed. But, O wot a surprise! "Alarmed? about _you_, Sir! And _why_?" sez DIANNER, with eyes all aflash, I sez, "Don't yer remember Adonis, love, Venus's boar-'unting mash? No wonder the lady felt fainty like; fear for a sweetheart, yer see. And--well, if I'm not quite Adonis, _you found your Enjimmyun_ in _Me_! [Illustration] "One more, only one, dear DIANNER," I sez. And I aimed for a kiss, I made for her lips, a bee-line. But great snakes, my dear boy, wot a miss! Hit me over the 'ed with her boar-spear, a spanker, she did, like a shot. Don't you never spoon goddesses, CHARLIE; you'll find it a dashed sight too 'ot! "Adonis!" she cried. "Nay, Actæon! And his shall be also thy fate. There is _Punch_ looking on, he'll approve!" And she jest set 'er dogs on me, straight! "Way-oh! Miss DIANNER!" I yells. "No offence! Don't be 'ard on a bloke! Beg yer pardon, I'm sure!" Here a hound nipped my calf like a vice, and--I woke. Leastways, I persoom it _wos_ waking, if 'tother was sleep and a dream, But I feel a bit moon-struck, dear boy. Spooks abound, and things ain't what they seem. _Mister Punch_ sez, "it served me quite right." Well, next time correspondence he'd carry With satterlites, spesh'ly the Moon, he had better not drop upon 'ARRY.