WATER-PARTIES

(_By Mr. Punch's Vagrant_)

Take four pretty girls And four tidy young men; Add papa and mamma, And your number is ten.

Having ten in your party You'll mostly be eight, For you'll find you can count Upon two to be late.

In the packing of hampers 'Tis voted a fault To be rashly forgetful Of corkscrew and salt.

Take a mayonnaised lobster, A tasty terrine, A salmon, some lamb And a gay galantine.

Take fizz for the lads, Claret-cup for the popsies, And some tartlets with jam So attractive to woppses.

Let the men do the rowing, And all acquire blisters; While the boats go zigzag, Being steered by their sisters.

Then eat and pack up And return as you came.

Though your comfort was _nil_, You had fun all the same.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THOSE BROWNS AND THEIR LUMINOUS PAINT AGAIN]

"SIC TRANSIT----"

Just starting down Southampton Water in jolly old Bigheart's yacht, _The Collarbone_--or _Columbine_? I wonder which it is? Dear old Bigheart, the best fellow in the world, and enthusiastic about yachting. So am I (theoretically, and whilst in smooth water). Try to act as nautically as possible, and ask skipper at frequent intervals "How does she bear?"

Don't know what it means; but, after all, what _does_ that matter?

Skipper stares at me rather helplessly, and mutters something about "Nothe-nor-east-by-sou-sou-west." Feel that, with this lucid explanation, I ought to be satisfied, so turn away, a.s.sume cheery aspect and with a rolling gait seize the topsail-main-gaff-mizen sheet and pull it l.u.s.tily, with a "Yo, heave ho!"

The pull, unfortunately, releases heavy block, which, falling on Bigheart's head, seems to quite annoy him for the minute. We plunge into Solent, and then bear away for West Channel. Skipper remarks that we shall make a long "retch" of it (_absit omen_). He then adds that we could "bring up"--why these unpleasantly suggestive nautical expressions?--off Yarmouth. Not wishing to appear ignorant, I ask Bigheart, "Why not make a course S.S. by E.?" He replies, "Because it would take us ash.o.r.e into the R. V. Yacht Club garden," and I retire somewhat abashed.

Out in West Channel we get into what skipper calls "a bit of a bobble."

Don't think I care quite so much for yachting in "bobbles." Bigheart shows me all the varied beauties of the coast, but now they fail to interest me. He says, "I say, we'll keep sailing until quite late this evening, eh? That'll be jolly!" Reply, "Yes, that'll be jolly," but somehow my voice lacks heartiness.

An hour later I was lying down--I felt tired--when Bigheart came up, and with a ring of joy in his manly tones exclaimed, "I tell you what, old man; we'll carry right on, now, through the night. We're not in a hurry, so we'll get as much sailing as we can." ... Then, with my last ounce of failing strength, I sat up and denounced him as an a.s.sa.s.sin.

After pa.s.sing a night indescribable, lying on the shelf--I mean berth--I was put ash.o.r.e at Portland next morning. Should like to have procured dear old Bigheart a government appointment there for seven years, as a due reward for what he had been making me suffer.

SUITABLE SONG FOR BOATING MEN.--The last _rows_ of summer.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SAD RESULTS OF PERSISTENT BRIDGE PLAYING AT SEA

_Owner._ "I'll 'eave it to you, partner!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Mr. Dibbles_ (_at Balham_). "Ah, the old Channel Tunnel scheme knocked on the head at last! Good job too! Mad-headed project--beastly unpatriotic too!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Mr. Dibbles_ (_en route for Paris. Sea choppy_.) "Channel Tunnel not a bad idea. Entire journey to Paris by train. Grand scheme! English people backward in these kind of things. Steward!"

[_Goes below._

MY YOT

(_A Confidential Carol, by a c.o.c.kney Owner, who inwardly feels that he is not exactly "in it," after all_)

What makes me deem I'm of Viking blood (Though a wee bit queer when the pace grows hot), A briny slip of the British brood?

My Yot!

What makes me rig me in curious guise?

Like a kind of a sort of--I don't know what, And talk sea-slang, to the world's surprise?

My Yot!

What makes me settle my innermost soul On winning a purposeless silver pot, And walk with a (very much) nautical roll?

My Yot!

What makes me learned in cutters and yawls, And time-allowance--which others must tot--, And awfully nervous in sudden squalls?

My Yot!

What makes me sprawl on the deck all day, And at night play "Nap" till I lose a lot, And grub in a catch-who-can sort of a way?

My Yot!

What makes me qualmish, timorous, pale, (Though rather than own it I'd just be shot) When the _Fay_ in the wave-crests dips her sail?

My Yot!

What makes me "patter" to skipper and crew In a kibosh style that a child might spot, And tug hard ropes till my knuckles go blue?

My Yot!

What makes me snooze in a narrow, close bunk, Till the cramp my limbs doth twist and knot, And brave discomfort, and face blue-funk?

My Yot!

What makes me gammon my chummiest friends To "try the fun"--which I know's all rot-- And earn the dead-cut in which all this ends?

My Yot!

What makes me, in short, an egregious a.s.s, A bore, a b.u.t.t, who, not caring a jot For the sea, as a sea-king am seeking to pa.s.s?

My Yot!