Volume 93 — A DAY OUT. (By Jacques Junior.)

A fishing, paddling pic-nic! What, to stand On the lush margent of the gusty stream, With feet benumbed, and watch the bobbing quill, And then to dine al fresco—not for Jacques! Where, for the smooth mahogany of Ind, The unplaned earth is board; for cushion'd chair The damp earth, ant-infested, or rough root Chafing the unaccustomed cuticle; Where mint sauce th' insecure platter doth o'errun, With hose and doublet playing Lucifer; Where glasses must be emptied as they're filled, To the great prejudice of temperance, Or, if set down, drops me a spider in, To spoil the fortune he cannot enjoy, Like Sir No-Company, who makes a third. While e'en a grumble, relishabler far Than that keen sauce of Sparta, is denied. For one there'll be who'll not let ill alone, But, "I prithee try this compound; I learnt the knack In Venice," or, "Thus in England wines are mix'd! Pray you pronounce upon't." Another, worst, Will keep all waiting while he spoils good food, Concocting some vile preparation, Calling't a Sallet. "Taste in charity, For Fate's against me; some ingredient Of utmost import hath been left at home." And so the wholesome green is all besprent With bile-disturbing mixture. Out upon't! I'd rather find a kitten in a stew Than one of these same preaching salad-bunglers. What are the uses of al fresco meals? Who likes a toad, ugly and venomous,— Where's such a precious fool—upon the bread? And they who, in contempt, the Dryad's haunts Profane with empty bottles and loose papers, Find tongues in tarts, ants running on their boots, Wasps in the wine, and salt in everything!