MR. BRIGGS'S PLEASURES OF HUNTING.

No. VIII. MR. BRIGGS HAS ANOTHER DAY WITH THE HOUNDS.

MR. BRIGGS CAN'T BEAR FLYING LEAPS, SO HE MAKES FOR A GAP—WHICH IS IMMEDIATELY FILLED BY A FRANTIC PROTECTIONIST, WHO IS VOWING THAT HE WILL PITCHFORK MR. B. IF HE COMES "GALLOPERRAVERING" OVER HIS FENCES—DANG'D IF HE DOAN'T.

AN EYE TO BUSINESS.

NOT A DIFFICULT THING TO FORETELL.

"LET THE POOR GIPSY TELL YOUR FORTUNE, MY PRETTY GENTLEMAN."

FLOWERS OF THE FRENCH ARMY—PICKED AT PARIS.

NOT YET!

HIGHLY INTERESTING.

"SEEN THAT PARTY LATELY?"

"WHAT? THE PARTY WITH THE WOODEN LEG, AS COME WITH—"

"NO, NO—NOT THAT PARTY. THE PARTY, YOU KNOW, AS—"

"OH! AH! I KNOW THE PARTY YOU MEAN NOW."

"WELL, A PARTY TOLD ME AS HE CAN'T AGREE WITH THAT OTHER PARTY, AND HE SAYS THAT IF ANOTHER PARTY CAN'T BE FOUND TO MAKE IT ALL SQUARE, HE SHALL LOOK FOR A PARTY AS WILL." (And so on for half an hour.)

SOUND ADVICE.

Master Tom. "HAVE A WEED, GRAN'PA?"

Gran'pa. "A WHAT! SIR?"

Master Tom. "A WEED!—A CIGAR, YOU KNOW."

Gran'pa. "CERTAINLY NOT, SIR. I NEVER SMOKED IN MY LIFE."

Master Tom. "AH! THEN I WOULDN'T ADVISE YOU TO BEGIN."