dress, cut short in the skirt, and displaying the very neatest and
smallest pair of ankles that ever were seen. And your dear little nose
is just a leetle--not red, no, certainly not red, but just delicately
pink on its jolly little tip, having gallantly braved the north wind
without a veil. To call _you_ a bore is absurd. But men are _such_
brutes, and it is as certain as that two and two (even at our public
schools) make four, that ladies are--what shall I say?--not so popular
as they always ought to be when they come amongst shooters engaged
in their sport. Even at lunch they are not _always_ welcomed with
enthusiasm. This is, perhaps, wrong, for, after all, they can do no
harm there.

But, darling ROSE, I am sure FRED was perfectly right to send you home
again directly the meal was over, though it must have wrung his manly
heart to part from EMILY RAYBURN. Even, I, the veteran sportsman
_Punch_, have qualms when a poor bird has been merely wounded, or
when a maimed hare shrieks as the dog seizes it. I cannot, as I say,
discuss the ethics of the question. The good shot is the merciful
shot. But, after all, in killing of every kind, whether by the gun or
the butcher's knife, there is an element of cruelty. And therefore,
my pretty ROSE, _you_ must keep away from the shooting. Besides, have
I not seen a good shot "tailor" half-a-dozen pheasants in succession,
merely because a chattering lady--not a dear, pleasant little lump of
delight like you, ROSE--had posted herself beside him, and made him
nervous? By all means come to lunch if you must, but, equally by all
means, leave the guns to themselves afterwards. As for ladies who
themselves shoot, why the best I can wish them is, that they should
promptly shoot themselves. I can't abide them. Away with them!

But, in order that the purpose of this work may be fulfilled,