To Monsieur Punch.

Cher Monsieur,—Last year I am gone to your races of Ascot. It is beautiful, it is ravishing, but how it is dear! Thousand thunders, how it is dear! I go to the Grand Prix, I pay twenty francs, that is also dear, but it is all, it is finished. Eh well, I desire to see one time your Gold Cup, and I go of good hour by railway. Arrived there I pay one pound, that what you call one sov., and I enter. I suppose I can go by all—partout, how say you? Ah, but no! I see by all some affiches "One Pound."

I can to write your language enough well, but I speak with much of difficulty. Therefore I read the affixes without nothing to ask. Thus when I read "One Pound" I go no more far. I walk myself in the charming garden and I see the beautiful misses. Ah how they are adorable! Daudet has wrong, Daudet is imbecile, they are adorable. It is not the pain to pay again some pounds for to see to run the horses, when I can to see the misses who walk themselves here, without to pay of more.

But in fine I am fatigued. Also I have great hunger, for it is the hour of the dÉjeuner. But without doubt one is obliged to pay one pound before to enter the bar. My word, I will not! I shall not pay one sov., and more, for a squashed lemon and a bun of Bath. I go to smoke at place of that, and I walk myself at the shade all near of an arch.

All of a blow all the world lifts himself and comes very quick towards me. I cannot escape, I am carried away by the crowd, I arrive to the arch. I think "Du courage, Auguste mon cher! Sois calme! S'il y a encore une livre À payer——" But there is no sov., and I pass. Thousand thunders! What is, then, this noise? Is he a revolution, a riot of Anarchists? Ah, no! It are the bookmakers. The bookmakers in the midst of the ladies! Hold, it is droll! And I pay one sov. to stand with those men there! It is too strong! I go more far, I pass the barrier, I am alone on the grass. I go to left. I see some men, in a cage of iron, who cry also. It is—how say you?—"Tatersal." Then, ah heaven, I arrive at the true Pesage! Not of burgesses, not of villain beasts of bookmakers, not even of "Tatersals." But partout the ladies the most beautiful, the most charming, the most adorable! It is there I go! Even if I pay one sov., two sovs., three sovs., I go!

I essay to enter. The policeman stops me. I say, "One pound?" and I offer to him one sov. He looks all around, and then he says, quite low, "No good, Sir—the inspector's looking." I say, "She is good, that pound there, I assure you of it. Is there two to pay?" And I hold one other. Then the inspector comes and says I bribe the policeman. I say that no. He says that yes. I am furious. I say I pay the entrance. He says, "Get off the course." I refuse. He pushes me. I resist. Other policemen push me. Just heaven, they force me to go! I cannot resist. Then all the people in face cry furiously. They shout "Welshman!" How they are stupid! Can they think that I am a Welshman—me, Auguste? Ah, that it is droll! Then the policemen run, and I run also. I wish not to run, but I am forced. And, in fine, we are at the railway station, and they put me in a train, and I arrive to London at three o'clock. See there all that I have seen of your races of Ascot, and I have paid one sov. It costs very dear.

Sincere friendships,

Auguste.

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THE MAN AND THE MAID.

(Up-to-date "Biking" Version.)

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A RULE OF CONDUCT.

You say to a man what you couldn't write to him; and you write to a man what you wouldn't say to him.—James the Tran-Quill Penman, J.P.

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SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.

A famous old mill has been burned to the ground. None other than that situate upon the river Dee, where a certain jolly miller sang songs and earned the envy of "bluff King Hal" in days of old, wearing the white flour of a blameless life. He also wore a white hat, for the purpose, it is said, of keeping his head warm. The modern miller wears one in summer to keep his head cool. No doubt he found it useful at the fire. Great thing to keep a cool head on such occasions. The mill has now been destroyed by fire four times. There was an ancient prophecy, according to a local paper, that it was doomed to be burned down three times. This Delphic oracle would, of course, have inspired the simple gentlemen of old Greece to give up insuring after the third fire. Probably the modern "miller of the Dee" has committed a paradox, and profited by a lofty disregard for his prophet.

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All Saints Church, Old Swan, is the first Liverpool church which has adopted the innovation of lady choristers wearing the new surplices and caps, which have been specially designed for their use. The surplices are quite unlike those used by the clergy; they are more like dolmans. The caps are of the shape worn by a D.C.L., and are made of violet velvet. One of the most cogent reasons for their adoption is expressed by the Rev. Canon Wilkinson, who, as appears from the Sheffield and Rotherham Independent, writes thus:—"Since these garments have been introduced, the offertories in the church have been increased by at least one-third."

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International Discourtesy.—The French law, it seems, requires the owner of a yacht, in which he is himself sailing, to supply stores of victual and drink for his crew. A French yacht put in at Dartmouth, says the Field, and the Dartmouth Custom-house officials darted down on her, and made the owner pay for what he used of his own. "They manage these things better in France." This would have been indeed, "a 'Custom' more honoured in the breach than in the observance."

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