PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.-AUGUST 11, 1894.

Little Girl (of inquiring mind, to Stud Groom, looking at a Mare in field with Foal). "How OLD IS THAT LITTLE HORSE?"
Stud Groom. "WELL, MISSY, HE'S ONLY FIVE DAYS OLD."
Little Girl (to her Governess). OH, NANA, DID I RUN ABOUT THE FIELDS WHEN I WAS FIVE DAYS OLD?"

A LITTLE HOLIDAY. Sunday.-How exhausting is London life! Up late, night and morning. Club. See summer number of illustrated paper. Pictures of pretty girls, reclining in punts, hammocks, or deck-chairs, doing nothing, men helping them. True holiday for jaded Londoner. Perhaps better without pretty girls. Even more reposeful. Must get right away. Secluded place. No pretty girls. That tiny inn JONES told me about. Miles from everywhere.

Monday.-At Tiny Inn. Fine afternoon. Feel quite happy, With summer clothes, summer numbers, flannels, straw hat, and other suitable things. Seven miles from station. Beautifully clean. Perfectly quiet. Weather changing. Raining. Landlord says, "Soon over." Eggs and bacon for supper. To bed early.

landlord where one can go. Don't like to ask "if any girls about anywhere?" Accidentally landlord does happen to mention Farmer MUGGERIDGE's daughters. I pretend indifference, but inquire as to direction of MUGGERIDGE's farm. Lose my way. Wander helplessly. Steady downpour. Return, drenched. Butcher has not been. Eggs and bacon for dinner. Smoke, and read advertisements-plenty of them-in summer numbers. To bed at nine.

Thursday.-Wake at three. Toss about till seven. Then breakfast-usual dish. Rain not quite so heavy. With fuller directions as to road, start hopefully for MUGGERIDGE'S farm. Arrive there. Heavy rain again. MUGGERIDGE loafing about. Country people always loaf about in rain. They seem to enjoy it. Chat with him. He asks me in to have some cider. Accept. Chance of seeing charming daughters. They enter! Now!... Oh! awful! Cider acid. Obliged to drink it. Hurry back. Lunch. Usual dish. Still raining. Call in landlord, and ask eagerly about trains to London. The next is to-morrow morning, at 8.20. Give way to despair. Refuse eggs and bacon for dinner. Bed eight.

Tuesday.-Wake at five. Up at six to enjoy morning air. Eggs and bacon for breakfast. Still raining. Landlord says, Very remarkable, since in this place it never rains." Somehow the clouds always pass over neighbouring village, following the course of the river, Friday. Leave in landlord's cart at seven, after usual breakfast. the ridge of the hills, or something. Have noticed in all country Still raining steadily. Gave landlord all those summer numbers to places that the clouds always do this, except when I am there. Im- amuse future weather-bound visitors with imaginary pictures of possible to lounge under a tree in this rain. Stop indoors, smoke, rural happiness. London once more! Hurrah! Dinner-not eggs and read summer numbers. Eggs and bacon for lunch. Rain and bacon. Theatre. Smoke at club. Avoid JONES. Tell SMITH going on steadily. Put on flannels, go out. Drenched. Eggs and I know the sweetest place for country peace and seclusion. He bacon for dinner. Landlord says they hope to give me some meat to-writes down the address eagerly. Those summer numbers will amuse morrow. Butcher calls once a week apparently. Wet evening. him. To bed-any time! Somewhat tired of sitting on horsehair sofa with damaged springs. Know all the summer numbers by heart. To bed at ten. Wednesday.-Wake at four. Toss about till six. Then up. Still raining. Breakfast,- eggs and bacon. Landlord savs if I cross two fields I shall find the river and a punt. Thanks. Will wait till rain stops. He says it is sure to stop soon. Ask him if one can get a London paper. Says they sometimes have one at the stationer's, four miles off, but generally only when ordered. Lends me a local paper of last week. Reduced to summer numbers again. Begin to wish there were some pretty girls here, after all. They might enliven things. After lunch,-of eggs and bacon,-resolve to go out. Ask

AT THE WINDOW.-Judging from the tone of JAMES PAYN's delightful Note-Book this week, one fears that charming and cheery gossiper has been "laid up," has been compelled to take his "Notes" from a sick-couch at a window-has, in fact, for the time, become a windowPAYN! Well, a window is no bad coign of vantage for an observant penman. 'The World from a Window" would make an excellent book, and JAMES PAYN would be the very man to write it. Let Mr. PAYN think of it. Mr. Punch's present purpose, however, is to wish his good friend and favourite writer speedy emancipation from the bonds of sickness and compulsory window-watching.