Mr. Punch in the Hunting Field Part 2

[Ill.u.s.tration: SOMETHING LIKE A NOSE.

_Whip_ (_after galloping half a mile to a holloa_). "Where did you see him?"

_Yokel._ "Can't zay as 'ow I 'zactly _zeed_ 'un, but I think I _smelled_ 'un!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Second Horseman No. 1._ "Ulloah, Danny, what are you lookin' for?"

_Second Horseman No. 2._ "Perkisites. Guv'nor's just been over 'ere. 'E jumps so much 'igher than 'is 'orse, there's always some small change or summat to be picked up!"]

THE NEW NIMROD

[Mr. Pat O'Brien, M.P., was first in at the death on one occasion with the Meath Hounds on his bicycle, and was presented with the brush.]

Air--"_The Hunting Day_"

"What a fine hunting day"-- 'Tis an old-fas.h.i.+oned lay That I'll change to an up-to-date pome; Old stagers may swear That the pace isn't fair, But they're left far behind us at home!

See cyclists and bikes on their way, And scorchers their prowess display; Let us join the glad throng That goes wheeling along, And we'll all go a-hunting to-day!

New Nimrods exclaim, "Timber-topping" is tame, And "bull-finches" simply child's play; And they don't care a jot For a gallop or trot, Though they _will_ go a-hunting to-day.

There's a fox made of clockwork, they say They'll wind him and get him away; He runs with a rush On rails with his brush, So we must go and chase him to-day.

We've abolished the sounds Of the horn and the hounds-- 'Tis the bicycle squeaker that squeals And the pack has been stuffed, Or sent to old Cruft, Now the huntsmen have taken to wheels!

Hairy country no more we essay, Five bars, too, no longer dismay, For we stick to the roads In the latest of modes, So we'll bike after Reynard to-day!

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE LANGUAGE OF SPORT.

"Where the----! What the----!! Who the----!!! Why the----!!!!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: COMFORTING, VERY!

_Sportsman (who has mounted friend on bolting mare) shouts._ "You're all right, old chap! She's never been known to refuse water, and swims like a fis.h.!.+"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Old Stubbles_ (_having pounded the swells_). "Aw--haw----!

laugh away, but who be the roight side o' the fence, masters?"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: CUB HUNTING

1. "Ah, my boys," said Percy Johnson, "give me a good old hurry and scurry--Heigh O! gee whoa!--over the downs and through the brushwood after the cubs. So, early in the morning as you like. What can be more exhilarating?"

2. So, in happy antic.i.p.ation of the morrow's meet, he retired.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: 3. Later, at 4 a.m., the butler came to rouse him. "Sir!"

A pause. "Sir, th' 'osses be very nigh ready!" Uncertain voice from within--"Eh? good-night! Remember to call me early in the morning!"

4. Snoring resumed _in infinitum_. Still, Percy looked rather sheepish later on, when the others pretended they had missed him on the road, and inquired whether he had found the morning as exhilarating as he had expected.]

MY LITTLE BROWN MARE

(_A Song for the commencement of the Hunting Season_)

She's rather too lean but her head's a large size, And she hasn't the average number of eyes; Her hind legs are not what you'd call a good pair, And she's broken both knees, has my little brown mare.

You can find some amus.e.m.e.nt in counting each rib, And she bites when she's hungry like mad at her crib; When viewed from behind she seems all on the square, She's quite a Freemason--my little brown mare.

Her paces are rather too fast, I suppose, For she often comes down on her fine Roman nose, And the way she takes fences makes hunting men stare, For she backs through the gaps does my little brown mare.

She has curbs on her hocks and no hair on her knees; She has splints and has spavins wherever you please?

Her neck, like a vulture's, is horribly bare, But still she's a beauty, my little brown mare.

She owns an aversion to windmills and ricks, When pa.s.sing a waggon she lies down and kicks; And the clothes of her groom she'll persistently tear-- But still she's no vice has my little brown mare.

When turned down to gra.s.s she oft strays out of bounds; She always was famous for snapping at hounds; And even the baby has learnt to beware The too playful bite of my little brown mare.

She prances like mad and she jumps like a flea, And her waltz to a bra.s.s band is something to see: No circus had ever a horse, I declare, That could go through the hoops like my little brown mare.

I mount her but seldom--in fact, to be plain, Like the Frenchman, when hunting I "do not remain:"

Since I've only one neck it would hardly be fair To risk it in riding my little brown mare!

[Ill.u.s.tration: TROUBLES OF A WOULD-BE SPORTSMAN

_Huntsman_ (_to W.B.S._). "Just 'op across, would ye, sir, and turn those 'ounds to me, please."]

[Ill.u.s.tration: RESPICE FINEM

_Excited Shepherd_ (_to careful Sportsman, inspecting fence with slight drop_). "Come on, sir! All right! Anywhere 'ere!"

_Careful Sportsman._ "All very fine! You want to give me a fall, and get half-a-crown for catching my horse!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: "WEEDS"]