ought to be changed, as it implies, to my mind, which is an excellent average sample; a misdemeanor)—­by winning a paltry thousand pounds race somewhere; I really believe the Cesare—­no!—­not again!—­was at his mercy—­but now, as the turf-writer puts it—­“I shall look elsewhere!”—­as if that would make any difference!—­but of this race, more anon, and meantime, those who are fond of the “good things” of this life must not miss my selection for the big race of next week at Kempton—­on the Jubilee Course, which said course, I am told, is by no means a Jubilee for the jockeys, owing to the danger in “racing for the bend.”

There are several horses entered who seem to have great chances, making the race as difficult as a problem in Euclid—­but my selection will most certainly be “there, or thereabouts,” which is a comforting, if somewhat vague reflection.

Yours truly, LADY GAY.

DUKE OF YORK STAKES SELECTION.

  The muse is dull!—­the day is dead! 
    And vain is all endeavour
  To light afresh the poet’s spark—­
    I can’t find a rhyme for the winner,
          Iddesleigh,

P.S.—­Really it’s most thoughtless of owners to harass one with such names!

* * * * *

“IN THIS STYLE, TWO-AND-SIX.”

(IN THE POUND).

SIR,—­I have been much struck with the suggestion to do without hats, and have made trial of the system.  It has also made trial of me, in the way of colds in the head, bronchial catarrh, &c., but I still persevere. It’s so much cheaper! I have sold my stock of old hats for half-a-crown, and calculate that I shall save quite three shillings per annum by not buying new ones.  Surely anybody can see that this is well worth doing!  I am now seriously contemplating the possibility of doing without boots!

Yours truly, SAVE THE SAXPENCES.

SIR,—­Talk about hair growing if you leave off hats!  My hair was falling off in handfuls a little time ago.  Did I abjure hats altogether?  Not being a born idiot, I did not.  But I saw that what was needed was proper ventilation aloft.  So I had a specially-constructed top-hat made, with holes all round it.  In fact there were more holes than hat, and the hatter scornfully referred to it as a “sieve.”  The invention answered splendidly.  There was a thorough draught constantly rushing across the top of my head, with the speed and violence of a first-class tornado.  My locks, before so scanty, at once began to grow in such profusion that it now seems impossible to stop them, except by liberal applications of “Crinificatrix,” the Patent Hair Restorer. That checks the growth effectually.  My general name among chance acquaintances is “Old Doormat.”  You can judge how thick my hair must be and I ascribe it entirely to the beneficent action of the draught, as before,

Yours, WELL-COVERED.