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.
"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, assume cheery aspect and with a rolling gait seize the topsail-main-gaff-mizen sheet and pull it lustily, 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 ashore 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 assassin.
After passing a night indescribable, lying on the shelf--I mean berth--I was put ashore 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.
SAD RESULTS OF PERSISTENT BRIDGE PLAYING AT SEA
Owner. "I'll 'eave it to you, partner!"
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!"
