THE TOURIST.

Dear Chloe, how often my cravings To winter abroad I've suppressed, Well knowing my limited savings Would last but a fortnight at best; In vain have the posters adjured me To sojourn in Monte or Rome, In vain has Herr Baedeker lured me ... I have wintered at home. But now, half the "ads" I set eyes on Suggest—and I jump at the chance— I should widen my mental horizon By touring through Belgium and France; They hint at abundance of shooting With guns that are Government made, Till the minor excitements of Tooting Are cast in the shade. Each tripper, it seems, will be guided By leaders of courage and skill; Free bedding and board are provided; Expenses are little, or nil; A welcome delightfully hearty, And sport that at least is unique, Await every man of the party.... We leave in a week. Good-bye, then, old dear, for the winter; Expect me in London by May (Unless a stray bullet or splinter Should lead to a trifling delay); From rumours—of which there are plenty— I gather the fun will begin At Calais, whence, Deo volente, We tramp to Berlin.