TABITHA NUPKINS.

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[Illustration:  UNLUCKY COMPLIMENTS.

Shy but Susceptible Youth.  “ER—­COULD YOU TELL ME WHO THAT YOUNG LADY IS—­SKETCHING?”

Affable Stranger.  “SHE HAS THE MISFORTUNE TO BE MY WIFE!”

Shy but Susceptible One (desperately anxious to please, and losing all presence of mind).  “OH—­THE MISFORTUNE’S ENTIRELY YOURS, I’M SURE!”]

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THE BAMSGATE SANDS.

  It’s hey for the sands, for the jolly Ramsgate Sands,
  Where the children shout and tumble, spade and bucket in their
          hands. 
  Where sandy castles rise in scores, I trow a man might float
  A fleet of six-inch pleasure-skiffs on many a deep-dug moat. 
  Where, while the banjos discord make, the German bands make noise,
  And nursemaids by the hundred shepherd flocks of girls and boys. 
  Where the boys tuck up their trousers, and the girls tuck up their
          frocks,
  A paddling tribe who scorn their shoes and customary socks.

  Ye loud-voiced men of cocoa-nuts, what is it that you say? 
  “Come try yer luck, roll, bowl, or pitch; the lydies stand’
          alf-way.” 
  One youth I saw who took his stand, a clerk of pith was he,
  He shut one eye and aimed with care, then let the ball fly free. 
  Twice, thrice, nay, thirty times he flung, his BETSY standing by,
  And scornfully advising him to close his other eye. 
  Yet, when at last he had to own he could not do the trick,
  No solitary cocoa-nut had toppled from its stick.

  Papa is in his glory here, that proud and happy man,
  But in spite of all his efforts, he can’t get coloured tan. 
  Yet every week-day morning, from ten o’clock till one,
  He turns that British face of his unflinching to the sun. 
  Mamma she sits beside him; I overheard her say,
  “Lor, Pa, you’ll soon be brown as brown, you’re not so red to-day.” 
  But wives can’t flatter tints away, and when he leaves the place,
  I’d guarantee to light my pipe at Pa’s tomato face.

  A front-row stall I quick secured, a green and gaudy bench,
  And paid my humble penny to a very buxom wench. 
  The tide was running out amain, and slowly, bit by bit,
  She moved her back seats forward till she left me in the pit. 
  Stout Mr. BIGGS, the hair-dresser, the Bond-Street mould of form,
  Sat next me with his family, and seemed to find it warm;
  And, while admiring Mrs. B. hung on her BIGGS’s lips. 
  He favoured me, as is his wont, with all the sporting tips.