As to the racing of next week--I have not the faintest idea _where_ it is, _what_ it is, or _why_ it is!--but such trifles do not disturb me, and I will proceed to my usual prophetic utterance on the event of the week! Yours devotedly, LADY GAY. THE BANK HOLIDAY STAKES SELECTION. In the sweet month of August no longer I choose, By the river or seaside to tarry! Preferring, in depths of the country to lose All chance of encounter with "'ARRY!" * * * * * "MINIME!"--The other day the SPEAKER admitted that he couldn't remember the Latin for "Yes." What a lot of time, trouble, and money our own countrymen would be spared could they only occasionally forget that there is such a word as "Yes" in English! How many marriages, which have ended in misery, would never have come off but for this mischievous monosyllable! But to continue this is to be Hamletising, and to consider too curiously. For the SPEAKER to own it, stamps him as the genuine article, a Candid PEEL. * * * * * [Illustration: TROP DE ZÈLE. _Clerical Customer_. "I WANT TO BUY A NICE DIAMOND BROOCH FOR MY BETTER HALF." _Over-anxious Shopkeeper_. "CERTAINLY, SIR. WE HAVE JUST THE VERY THING. WE CAN ACCOMMODATE YOU ALSO FOR YOUR OTHER HALF, IF YOU WISH." [_They did not trade._] * * * * * THE WAIL OF A PESSIMIST POET. O lift me out of this weary world, And put me on a tree, For life is all noughts And crosses, or thoughts That are busy for brawl and spree! For where is the man would strike the lyre, Or spurn with his foot the thief, Or melt all day, In a Midsummer way, At the sight of repentant grief? No! Lift me up to a leafy bough, Where my feet may play in the breeze, If my hot head there Still singe my hair, My heels may be ready to freeze! * * * * * MINOR MISERIES. NO. II.--THE WINGED HAT. My hat, my hat--away it flew-- The Strand was damp, the wind blew strong-- My tall silk hat, so bright and new; Ye Bishops, tell me was it wrong That, in that moment's agony, My language, like my hat, flew free? Away in swift pursuit I dashed, The hat went scudding fast before; By Busmen mocked, by Hansoms splashed, The more I ran, it flew the more. While boys screeched forth, in chorus vile, "I'll lay the toff don't catch 'is tile." On, on--at last it seemed to tire Of pavements and pursuing feet. It soared, then settled in the mire, Full in the middle of the street, A mud-stained, shattered relic--not The bright new hat I bought from SCOTT. Now was my time; I rushed--but no-- Fate ever mocks an ardent man; Even as I rushed, unwieldy, slow, Bore down a ponderous Pickford-Van, And under two broad wheels crushed flat My loved but suicidal hat.