But however reassuring a preliminary canter may be (to borrow another horsey simile) insist on a thorough personal inspection of all parts of the machine.  Test the musical capacity of the wire entanglement, screw and unscrew the turnbuckles till the seller cries for mercy, and run your hands well over the body (the aeroplane’s, of course) to make quite sure that it will support the weight of yourself, of your family and of your parasites—­remembering in this connection that Aunt Louisa kicks the beam at 15.7.  Make sure also that the body will not part company with the rest of the box of tricks at one of those awkward corners in the sky.  Also, if you have time, it might be well to glance at the engine, the petrol tank and the feed-pipe, as experts consider these of importance.

Having satisfied yourself that all these things are as they should be in the best of all possible aeroplanes, that the joy-stick works as smoothly as a beer-pull, and that the under-carriage has the necessary wheels, axles and other things that under-carriages are licensed to carry, little remains but to pay for the machine and make a nosedive for home.

A longer and more detailed article on “How to Choose a Stunter,” by the Bishop of Solder and Man, with which is incorporated “A Few Hints on Banking for Beginners,” by Sir JOHN BRADBURY, will appear in next week’s issue.

[This is the first I have heard of it.—­ED.]

* * * * *

From a Menu:—­

    “Special this day:  Boiled Rabbi and Pork.”

    A clear case of adding insult to injury.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  UNDER THE SHADOW OF THE DERBY.

Nurse.  “PLEASE IS THIS THE WAY TO THE GRAND PARADE?”

Soured Spinster.  “DON’T MENTION THE HORRID THING, YOUNG WOMAN, AND ME WITH HALF-A-MONTH’S PENSION ON THE PANTHER.”]

* * * * *

BALLADE OF APPROACHING BALDNESS.

  I’m back in civil life, all brawn and chest,
    Lungs made of leather, heart as right as rain;
  I still could dine off bully-beef with zest;
    I’ve never had a scratch or stitch or sprain;
    Life seems to throb in every single vein. 
  Yet I’m a whited sepulchre, in brief;
    I’ve one foot in the grave, I’m on the wane,
  I’m heading for the sere and yellow leaf.

  From Mons to Jericho I’ve borne my crest
    And back from Jericho to Mons again;
  I’ve sampled smells in Araby the Blest
    Would burst a boiler or corrode a drain;
    The Blankshires have a port that raises Cain—­
  I’ve messed with them and never come to grief;
    And yet I’m dashing like a non-stop train
  Full steam into the sere and yellow leaf.