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• 01 - From Calcutta to Cambridge Oversea Route

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  Chapter 1 of A Bayard from Bengal by F. Anstey. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A Bayard from Bengal being some account of the magnificent and spanking career of Chunder Bindaban Bosch Esquire B.A. Cambridge by Hurri Bungcho Jabirji B.A. Calcutta University,

  author of Jottings and Tiddlings, etc., etc., to which is appended the parables and proverbs of Piljosh, freely translated from the original styptic by another hand, with introduction, notes and appendix by the above Hurri Bungcho Jabirji B.A. The whole edited and revised by F. Anstey. Preliminary. I have the honour humbly to inform my readers that after prolonged consumption of midnight oil, I succeeded in completing this imposing society novel, which is now by the

  indulgence of my friends and kind fathers, the honourable publishers, laid at their feet. My inducement to this enterprise was the spectacle of very inferior rubbish palmed off by so-called popular novelists such as Honourables Kipling, Joshua Berry, Anthony Wayman, Stanley Hope, and the collaborative but feminine authoresses of The Red Thumb in the Potage, all of whom very, very incorrectly to give accurate reliable descriptions of Indian, English, or Scotch episodes.

  The pity of it that a magnificent and gullible British public should be suckled like a babe on such spoon meat and small beer. Would no one arise inflamed by the pure enthusiasm of his Cacothes Scruvendi and write a romance which shall secure the plethora of British, American, Anglo-Indian, colonial, and continental readers by dint of its imaginary power and slavish fidelity to nature? And since Echo answered that no one replied to this invitation, I,

  like a fool as some will say, rushed in where angels were apprehensive of being too bulky to be born. Being naturally acquainted with gentlemen of my own nationality and education, and also, of course, knowing London and suburban society ab ovo usque ad mala, or from the new laid egg to the stage when it is beginning to go bad, I decided to take as my theme the adventures of a typically splendid representative of young India on British soil, and I am in earnest hopes to avoid

  the shocking solicisms and exaggerations indulged in by ordinary English novelists. I have been compelled to take to penmanship of this sort owing to pressure of res angustadomi, the immoderate increase of hostages of fortune and proportionate falling off of emoluments from my profession as barrister at law. Therefore, I hope that all concerned will smile favorably upon my new departure and will please kindly understand that if my English literary style has suffered

  any deterioration, it is solely due to my being out of practice, and such spots on the sun must be excused as mere flies in ointment. After forming my resolution of writing a large novel, I confided it to my crony, Mr. Ram Ashustosh Lal, who warmly recommended me to persevere in such a magnum opus. So I became divinely inflated periodically every evening from 8 to 12 p.m., disregarding all entreaties from feminine relatives to stop and indulge in a blowout

  on ordinary eatables like Archimedes when Troy was captured, who was so engrossed in writing prepositions on the sand that he was totally unaware that he was being barbarously slaughtered. And at length my colossal effusion was completed, and I had written myself out, after which I had the indescribable joy and felicity to read my composition to my mother's-in-law and wives and their respective progenies and offspring, whereupon, although they were not

  acquainted with a word of English, they were overcome by such severe admiration for my fecundity and native eloquence that they swooned with rapture. I am not a superstitious, but I took the trouble to consult a soothsayer as to the probable fortunes of my undertaking, and he at once confidently predicted that my novel was to render all readers dumb as fishes with sheer amazement and prove a very fine feather in my cap. For all the above reasons, I am modestly

  confident that it will be generally recognized as a masterpiece, especially when it is remembered that it is the work of a native Indian whose Prentiss hand is still a novice in wielding the currente calamo of fiction. I cannot conclude without some allusion to the drawings which are, I believe, to adorn my work, but which I have not yet been enabled to inspect, owing to the fact that, having fish of more importance to fry at the time, I commissioned a certain young

  English friend, the same who furnished Sundry Poetic headings for chapters, to engage a designer for the pictorial department. Needless to say, I intended that he was to award the apple only to some royal academician of distinguished talents. Yet at the eleventh hour, when too late to make other arrangements, I am informed that the job has been entrusted to a certain Bernadher Patrighi, whose name, though probably incorrectly transcribed, certainly denotes a draftsman

  of native Indian origin. Whether he is fully competent for such a task, I cannot at present say. But unless he is qualified, like myself, by actual residents in Great Britain, I fear that he may not possess sufficient familiarity with the customs and solicisms of English society to avoid at least a few ludicrous and even lamentable mistakes. To guard against such contingencies, I shall insert a note or comment opposite each picture as it is submitted to me, pointing out

  in what respects, if any, the artist has failed to represent the author's intentions. I sincerely hope that I may now and then be able to pat the aforesaid Mr. P on the back instead of acting as a rattamanthus to wrap his knuckles. Chapter 1. From Calcutta to Cambridge Oversea Route. At sea the stoutest stomach jerks far, far away from native soil when oceans heaving waterworks burst out in brobding-magian-boil. Stands are written at sea by H.B.J. Unpublished. The waves

  of Neptune erected their seething and angry crests to incredible altitudes. Overhead in fulgenous storm clouds, the thunder rumbled its terrific bellows and from time to time the ghastly flare of lightning illuminated the entire neighborhood. The tempest howled like a lost dog through the cordage of the good ship Rohekund, Captain O. Williams, which lurched through the vasty deep as though overtaken by the drop too much. At one moment her poop was pointed

  towards celestial regions, at another it aimed itself at the recesses of Davy Jones's locker, and such was the fury of the gale that only a paucity of the ship's passengers remained perpendicular. At Mr. Chunder, Bindaban Bosch was recumbent on his beam end, prostrated by severe sickishness and hourly expecting to become initiated in the great secret. Vitterly did he lament his hard lines in venturing upon the black water, to be snipped off in the

  flower of his adolescence and never again to behold the beloved visages of his relations. So heart-rending were his tears and groans that they moved all on board, and Honorable Mr. Commissioner Copsie, who was returning on leave, kindly came to inquire the cause of such vociferous lacrimation. What is the matter, Babu? began the Commissioner in paternal tones. Why are you kicking up the shindy of such a deuce's own hullabaloo? Because, Honorable Sir, responded Mr.

  Bosch, I am in lively expectation that waters will rush in and extinguish my vital spark. Who? said Mr. Commissioner genially. This is only the moiety of a gale, and there is not the slightest danger. Having received this assurance, Mr. Bosch's natural courage revived, and coming up on deck he braved the tempest with the cool composure of a cucumber, admonishing all his fellow passengers that they were not to give way to panic,

  seeing that death was the common lot of all, and though everyone must die once, it was an experience that could not be repeated, with much philosophy of a similar kind, which astonished many who had falsely supposed him to be a pusillanimous. The remainder of the voyage was uneventful, and soon after setting his feet on British territory, Mr. Bosch became an alumnus and undergraduate of the alma mater of Cambridge. I shall not attempt

  to relate at any great length the history of his college career, because being myself a graduate of Calcutta University, I am not, of course, proficient in the customs and etiquettes of any rival seminaries, and should probably make one or two trivial slips which would instantly be pounced upon and held up for derision by carping critics. So I shall content myself with mentioning a few leading facts and incidents. Mr. Bosch very soon warmed himself into the good

  graces of his fellow college boys, and his principal friend and fetus acetes was a young high-spirited aristocrat entitled Lord Jack Jolly, the only son of an earl who had lately been promoted to the dignity of a baronet see. Lord Jolly and Mr. Bosch were soon as inseparable as a demon and pythoness, and though no nabob to wallow in filthy lucre, Mr. Bosch gave frequent entertainments to his friends who were hugely delighted by the elegance of his hospitality

  and the garrilety of his conversation. Unfortunately, the fame of these barmicide feasts soon penetrated the ears of the college gurus, and Mr. Bosch's mulevie sent for him and severely reprimanded him for neglecting to study his little-go degree and squandering his immense abilities and talents on mere guzzling. Whereupon Mr. Bosch shed tears of contrition, embracing the feet of his senile tutor, and promising that if only he was restored to favour, he would become more diligent in future.

  And honourably did he fulfil his nadum pactum, for he became a most exemplary bookworm, burning his midnight candle at both ends in the endeavour to cram his mind with Bella's Lettres. But he was assailed by a temptation which I cannot forbear to chronicle. One evening as he was pouring over his learned tomes, who should arrive but a deputation of prominent Cambridge boatmen and athletics to entreat him to accept a stroke or of the University Eight in the forthcoming race with

  Oxford College. This, as all aquatics will agree, was no small compliment, particularly to one who was so totally unversed in wielding the flashing oar. But the authorities had beheld him propelling a punt boat with marvellous dexterity by dint of a paddle, and taking the length of his foot on that occasion, they had divined a Hercules and ardently desired him as a confederate. Mr. Bosch College, misters and friends, he said, I welcome this invitation with a joyful and thankful heart,

  as an honour, not to this poor self, but to young India. Nevertheless, I am compelled by Deera Nekasitas to return the polite negative. Gladly I would help you to inflict crushing defeat upon our presumptuous foe, but I see a hand you cannot see that beckons me away. I hear a voice you cannot hear that wheezes, not today. In other words, gentlemen, I am now actively engaged in the titanic struggle to floor Lil' Go. It is glorious to obtain a victory over Oxonian rivals,

  but, misters, there is an enemy it is still more glorious to pulverise, and that enemy is oneself. The deputation then withdrew with falling crests, though unable to refrain from admiring the fortitude, which a mere native student had nilled an invitation which to most European youths would have proved an irresistible attraction. Nor did they cherish any resentment against Mr. Bosch, even when, in the famous intercollegiate race of that year from Hammersmith to Putney,

  Cambridge was ingloriously bumped and Oxford won in a common canter.

• 02 - How Mr. Bhosh Delivered a Damsel from a Dememted Cow

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  CHAPTER II. HOW MR. BOSH DELIVERED A DAMSEL FROM A DEMENTED COW. O cow, in hours of mental ease Thou chewest cuds beneath the trees, But ah, when madness rocks thy brow An awkward customer art thou! Nature poem furnished to order by Young English friend. Mr. Bosh's diligence at his books was rewarded by getting through his little go with such a claw

  that he was admitted to become a baccalaureate, and further presented with the greatest distinction the Vice-Chancellor could bestow upon him, that is, the title of a wooden spoon. But here I must not omit to narrate some much startling catastrophe in which Mr. Bosh figured as the god out of machinery.

  It was an afternoon before he went up to pass his little go exam, and since all work and no play is apt to render any jack a dull, he was recreating himself by a solitary promenade in some fields in the vicinity of Cambridge, when suddenly his startled ears were dumbfounded to perceive the blood-curdling sound of loud female vociferations. On looking up from his reverie, he was horrified by the spectacle of a young and beauteous maiden

  being vehemently pursued by an irate cow, whose reasoning faculties were too obviously, in the words of Ophelia, like sweet bells bangled, or in other words, non compass mentis, and having rats in her upper story. The young lady, possessing the start and also the advantage of superior juvenility, had the precedence of the cow by several yards and attained the embracious shelter of a tree stem

  behind which she tremulously awaited the arrival of her bloodthirsty antagonist. As he noted her jewel-like eyes, profuse hair and panting bosom, Mr. Bosch's triangle of flesh, footnote, vid elicit, his heart, end of footnote, was instantaneously ignited by love at first sight.

  The intelligent reader will please understand that the foregoing refers to the maiden and not at all to the cow, which was of no excessive pulchritude, but I am not to be responsible for the ambiguities of the English language. There was not a moment to be squandered. Mr. Bosch had just time to recommend her earnestly to remain in statu quo

  before setting off to run ventra a terra in the direction whence he had come. The distracted animal, abandoning the female in distress, immediately commenced to hew and cry after our hero, who was compelled to cast behind him his collegiate cap, like tub to a whale. The savage cow ruthlessly impaled the cap on one of its horns and then resumed the chase.

  Mr. Bosch scampered for his full value, but with all his incredible activity, he had the misery of feeling his alternate heels scorched by the fiery snorts of the maniacal quadruped. Then he stripped from his shoulders his student's robe, relinquishing it to the tender mercies of his ruthless prosecutress while he nimbly surmounted a gate.

  The cow only delayed sufficiently to rend the garment into innumerable fragments, after which it cleared the gate with a single hop, and renewed the chase after Mr. Bosch's stern, till he was forced to discard his ivory-headed umbrella to the animal's destroying fury. This enabled him to gain the walls of the town and reach the bazaar

  where the whole population was in consternation at witnessing such a shuddering race for life, and made themselves conspicuous by their absence in back streets. Mr. Bosch, however, ran on undauntedly until, perceiving that the delirious creature was irrevocably bent on running him to earth, he took the flying leap into the shop of a cheese merchant

  where he cleverly entrenched himself behind the receipt of custom. With the headlong impetuosity of a distraught, the cow followed and charged the barrier with such insensate fury that her horns and appertaining head were inextricably embedded in a large tub of margarine butter.

  At this our hero, judging that the wings of his formidable foe were at last clipped, sallied boldly forth, and summoning a police officer, gave the animal into custody as a disturber of the peace. By such coolness and savoir-faire in a distressing emergency, he acquired great kudos in the eyes of all his fellow students,

  who regarded him as the conquering hero. Alas and alack, when he repaired to the field to receive the thanks and praises of the maiden he had so fortunately delivered, he had the mortification to discover that she had vanished and left not a wreck behind her.

  Nor with all his endeavours could he so much as learn her name, condition or whereabouts, but the remembrance of her manifold charms rendered him moon-struck with the tender passion, and not with style, and not withstanding his success in flooring the most difficult exams, his bosom's lord sat tightly on its throne

  and was not to jump until he should again, if ever, confront his mysterious fascinator. Having emerged from the shell of his statue pupillary under the fostering warmth of his alma mater, Mr. Bosch next proceeded as a full-fledged B.A. to the metropolis

  and became a candidate for forensic honours at one of the legal temples lodging under the elegant roof of a matron who regarded him as her beloved son for 21 rupees per week and attending lectures with such assiduity that he soon acquired a nodding acquaintance with every branch of jurisprudence.

  And when he went up for bar exam, he displayed his phenomenal proficiency to such an extent that the Lord Chancellor begged him to accept one of the best seats on the judge's bench an honour which to the best of his deponent's knowledge and belief has seldom before been offered to a raw Tyro

  and never certainly to a young Indian student. However, with rare modesty, Mr. Bosch declined the offer not considering himself sufficiently ripe as yet to lay down laws and also desirous of gathering roses while he might and mixing himself in first-class English societies.

  I am painfully aware that such incidents as the above will seem very mediocre and humdrum to most readers but I shall request them to remember that no hero can achieve anything very striking while he is still a hobbity-hoy and that I cannot, like some popular novelists,

  insult their intelligence by concocting cock-and-bolt occurrences which the smallest exercise of ordinary common sense must show to be totally incredible. By and by, when I come to deal with Mr. Bosch's experiences in the upper tenth of London society

  with which I may claim to have rather a profound familiarity I will boldly undertake that there shall be no lack of excitement. Therefore, have a little patience, indulgent misters. End of chapter 2, read by Don W. Jenkins Rancho San Diego, California, shaggybark.blogspot.com

• 03 - The Involuntary Fascinator

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  CHAPTER III. THE INVOLUNTARY FASCINATOR Please do not pester me with unwelcome attentions, since to respond I have no intentions. Your charms are deserving of honorable mentions, but previous attachment compels these abstentions. An unwilling wooed to his wooer. Original unpublished poem by H. B. J.

  Mr. Bosch was very soon enabled to make his debut as a pleader, for the mook-tears sent him briefs as thick as an autumn leaf in Vallembrosa, and having on one occasion to prosecute a youth who had embezzled an elderly matron, Mr. Bosch's eloquence and pathos melted the jury into a flood of tears which procured the triumphant acquittal of the prisoner. But the bow of Achilles, which, as poet Homer informs us, was his only vulnerable point, must be untied occasionally, and accordingly Mr. Bosch occasionally figured as the gay dog in upper-class societies,

  and was not long in winning a reputation in smart circles as a champion bounder. For he did greet those he met with a pleasant obsequious affability and familiarity which easily endeared him to all hearts. In his appearance he would, but for a somewhat mediocre stature and tendency to a precocious obesity, have strikingly resembled the well-known statuary of the Apollo Bellevue, and he was in consequence inordinately admired by aristocratic feminins who were enthralled by the fluency of his small talk,

  and competed desperately for the honor of his company at their afternoon at-home teas. It was at one of these exclusive festivities that he first met the Duchess Dickinson, and as we shall see hereafter that meeting took place in an evil ominous hour for our hero. As it happened, the honorable high-born hostess proposed a certain card game known as Penny Napkin, and fate decreed that Mr. Bosch should sit contiguous to the Duchess's grace,

  who by lucky speculations was the winner of incalculable riches. But hoity-toity, what were his dismay and horror when he detected that by her ledger domain and double-dealing she habitually contrived to assign herself five pictured cards of leading importance? How to act in such an unprecedented dilemma? As a chivalrous it was repugnant to him to accuse a Duchess of sharpening at cards,

  and yet at the same time he could not stake his fortune against such a foregone conclusion. So he very tactfully contrived by engaging the Duchess's attention to substitute his card hand for hers, and thus effect the exchange which is no robbery, and she, finally observing his finesse, and struck by the delicacy with which he had so unostentatiously rebuked her duplicity, earnestly desired his further acquaintance.

  For a time Mr. Bosch, doubtless obeying one of those supernatural and pre-sentimental munitions which were undreamt of in the Horatian philosophy, resisted all her advances. But alas, the hour arrived in which he became as Samson with Delilah. It was at the very summit of the season, during a brilliantly fashionable ball at the Ladbroke Hall, Archer Street, Bayswater, whither all the elites of tip-top London society had congregated.

  Mr. Bosch was present, but standing apart, overcome with his bashfulness at the paucity of upper feminine apparel, and designing to take his premature hook, when the beauteous Duchess, in passing surreptitiously flung over him a dainty nose-handkerchief, deliciously perfumed with extract of cherry blossoms. With native penetration into feminine cockatrees, he interpreted this as an intimation that she desired to dance with him.

  And though not proficient in such exercises, he made one or two revolutions round the room with her cooperation, after which they retired to an alcove and ate raspberry ices and drank lemonade. Mr. Bosch's sparkling tittle-tattle completely achieved the Duchess's conquest, for he possessed that magical gift of the gab which inspired the tender passion without any connivance on his own part. And though the Duchess was no longer the chicken, having attained her thirtieth luster,

  she was splendidly well preserved, with huge flashing eyes like searchlights in a face resembling the full moon, of tall stature and proportionate plumpness. Most young men would have been puffed out by pride at obtaining such a tip-top admirer. Not so our hero, whose manly heart was totally monopolized by the image of the fair unknown whom he had rescued at Cambridge from the savage clutches of a horned cow.

  And although after receiving from the Duchess a musk-scented postal card, requesting his company on a certain evening, he decided to keep the appointed tryst. It was only against his will and after heaving many sighs. On reaching the Duchess's palace, which was situated in Pembridge Square Bayswater, he had the mortification to perceive that he was by no means the only guest,

  since the reception halls were thickly populated by gilded worldlings. But the Duchess advanced to greet him in a very kind, effusive manner, and intimating that it was impossible to converse with comfort in such a crowd, she led him to a small side room where she seated him on a couch by her side and invited him to discourse. Mr. Bosch discoursed accordingly, paying her several high-flown compliments

  by which she appeared immoderately pleased and discoursed in her turn of instinctive sympathies, until our hero was wriggling like an eel with embarrassment at what she was to say next. And at this point, Duke Dickinson suddenly entered and reminded his spouse in rather abrupt fashion that she was neglecting her remaining guests. After the Duchess's departure, Mr. Bosch, with the feelings of an innate gentleman,

  felt constrained to make his sincere apologies to his ducal entertainer for having so engrossed his better half, frankly explaining that she had exhibited such a marked preference for his society that he had been deprived of all option on the matter, further assuring his dukeship that he by no means reciprocated the lady's sentiments and delicately recommending that he was to keep a rather more links-like eye in future upon her proceedings.

  To which the Duke, greatly agitated, replied that he was unspeakably obliged for the caution and requested Mr. Bosch to depart at once and remain in absentee for the future, which our friend cheerfully undertook to perform, and in taking leave of the Duchess, exhorted her with an eloquence that moved all present to abandon her frivolities and levities and adopt a deportment more becoming her matronly exterior.

  The reader would naturally imagine that she would have been grateful for so friendly and well meant a hint, but, oh dear, it was quite the reverse, for from a loving friend she was transformed into a bitter and most unscrupulous enemy, as we shall find in forthcoming chapters. Truly it is not possible to fathom the perversities of the feminine disposition. www.plugspot.com

• 04 - A Kick from a Friendly Foot

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  Chapter 4 of A Bayard from Bengal by F. N. Stee This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Don W. Jenkins Chapter 4 A Kick from a Friendly Foot She is a radiant damsel with features fair and fine,

  But since betrothed to bosom's friend, she never can be mine. Original poem by H. B. J. Unpublished Mr. Bosch's bosom friend, the Lord Jack Jolly, Had kindly undertaken to officiate as his palinoros, And steer him safely from the Silla to the Charybdis of the London season.

  And one day Lord Jolly arrived at our hero's apartments As the bearer of an invite from his honourable parent, the baronet, To partake of tiffin at their ancestral abode in Chepstow villas, Which Vindaban gratefully accepted. Arrived at the Jolly's sumptuous interior,

  A numerous retinue of pampered menials and gilded flunkies Divested Mr. Bosch of his hat and umbrella, And ushered him into the hall of audience. Mosh, my dear old pal, said Lord Jack, I have news for you. I am engaged as a benedict, and am shortly to celebrate matrimony

  With a young good-looking female, the Princess Petunia Jones. My lord, replied Mr. Bosch, suffer me to hang around your patrician neck The floral garland of my humble congratulations. Why, dear Bosch, responded the youthful pair of the realm, I regard you as more than a brother, and am confident

  That when my betrothed beholds your countenance She will conceive for you a similar lively affection. But hush, here she comes to answer for herself. Princess, permit me to present to you the best and finest friend I possess, Mr. Bindaban Bosch.

  Mr. Bosch modestly lowered his optics as he salamed with inimitable grace, And it was not until he had resumed his perpendicular That he recognized in the Princess Jones The charming unknown whom he had last beheld Engaged in repelling the assault of a distracted cow.

  Their eyes were no sooner crossed than he knew that she regarded him as her deliverer, And was consumed by the most ardent affection for him. But Mr. Bosch repressed himself with heroic magnanimity, For he reflected that she was the affiancest of his dearest friend, And that it was contrary to bon-pon to poach another's jam.

  So he merely said, How do you do? It is a very fine day. I am delighted to make your acquaintance. And turning on his heels with a profound curtsy, He left her flabbergasted with mortification. But those only who have compressed their souls

  In the shoe of self-sacrifice know how devilishly it pinches. And Mr. Bosch's grief was so acute that he rolled incessantly on his couch, While the radiant image of his divinity danced tantalizingly before his bloodshot vision. Eventually he became calmer, and after plunging his fervid body into a footbath, He showed himself once more in society,

  Assuming an air of meretricious waggishness to conceal the worm That was busily cankering his internals. And so successful was he that Lord Jack was entirely deceived by his vis comica, And invited him to spend the autumn up the country with his respectable parents. Mr. Bosch accepted, but when he knew that Princess Petunia was also to be one of the Amis de la Messon,

  He was greatly concerned at the prospect of infallibly reviving her love by his propinquity, And thereby inflicting the cup of calamity on his best friend. Willingly would he have imparted the whole truth to his lordship, And counseled him to postpone the princess's visit until he himself should have departed. But, ah me, with all his virtue he was not a Roman Palladium,

  That he should resist the delight of philandry with the radiant queen of his soul, So he kept his tongue in his cheek. However, when they met in the ancient and rural castle, He constrained himself in conversing with her, To enlarge enthusiastically upon the excellences of Lord Jack.

  What a good ripping gentlemanly fellow he was, And how certain to make a best quality husband. Princess Jones listened to these encomiums with tender sighing, While her soft large orbs rested on Mr. Bosch with ever increasing admiration. No one noticed how after these elephantine efforts at self-denial,

  He would silently slip away and weep salt and bitter tears, As he weltered dolefully on a doormat, Nor was it perceived that the princess herself was become thin as a weasel with disappointed love. Being the ardent sportsman, Mr. Bosch sought to drown his sorrow with pleasures of the chase. He would sally forth alone with no other armament than a breech-loading rifle,

  And endeavour to slay the wild rabbits which infested the baronet's domains, And sometimes he had the good fortune to slaughter one or two. Or he would take a rod and hooks and a few worms and angle for salmon, Or else he would stock partridges and once he even assisted in a fox-hunt, When he easily outstripped all the dogs and singly confronted Master Raynard,

  Who had turned to bay savagely at his nose. But Bindaban undauntedly descended from his horse, And drawing his hunting dagger, so dismayed the beast by his determined and ferocious aspect, That it turned its tail and fled into some other part of the country, Which earned him the heartfelt thanks from his fellow Nimrods.

  Naturally such feats of arms as these only served to inflame the ardour of the princess, To whom it was a constant wonderment that Mr. Bosch did never, even in the most roundabout style, Allude to the fact that he had saved her life from perishing miserably on the pointed horn of an enraged cow. She could not understand that the native temperament is too sheepishly modest to flaunt its deeds of heroism. Those who are au fait in knowledge of the world are aware that when there are combustibles concealed in any domestic interior,

  There is always a person, sooner or later, who will contrive to blow them off, And here too the serpent of mischief was waiting to step in with Clovenhoof and play the very deuce. It so happened that the Duchess occupied the adjacent bungalow to that of Baronet Jolly and his lady, With whom she was hale fellow well met, and this perfidious female set herself to ensnare the confidence of the young and innocent princess, By discreetly lauding the praises of Mr. Bosch.

  What an admirable Indian criton! How many rabbits and salmon had he laid low that week! Truly she regarded him as a favourite son, and marvelled that any youthful feminine could prefer an ordinary peer like Lord Jolly, To a native paragon who was not only a university B.A., but had successfully passed bar exam, and so forth and so on. The princess readily fell into this insidious booby trap and confessed the violence of her attachment, And how she had striven to acquaint Mr. Bosch with her sentiments, but was rendered inarticulate by maidenly bashfulness.

  Can you not then slip a love letter into his hand? inquired the Duchess. Qui bono? responded the princess sadly, seeing that he never approaches near enough to me to receive such a missive, And I dare not entrust it to one of my maidens. Why not to me? said the Duchess. He will not refuse it, coming from myself. Moreover, I have influence over him, and will soften his heart towards thee. Accordingly, the princess indicted a rather impassioned love letter, in which she assured Mr. Bosch that she had divined his secret passion, and fully reciprocated it.

  Also that she was the total indifferent to Lord Jack with much other similar matters. Having obtained possession of this literis scripta, what does the inscrupulous Duchess next but deliver it impromptu into the hands of Lord Jack, who after perusing it was overcome by uncontrollable wrath, and instantaneously summoned our hero to his presence? Here was the pretty kettle of fish, but I must reserve the sequel for the next chapter.

• 05 - The Duel to the Death

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  CHAPTER V. THE DUAL TO THE DEATH. The ordinary valor only works at those rare intervals when peril lurks. There is a courage, scarcer far and stranger, which nothing can intimidate but danger. Original stanza by H. B. J. No sooner had Mr. Bosch obeyed the summons of Lord Jack than the latter not only violently reproached him for having embezzled the heart of his chosen bride,

  but inflicted upon him sundry severe kicks from behind, barbarously threatening to encore the proceeding unless chunder instantaneously agreed to meet him in a mortal combat. Our hero, though grievously hurt, did not abandon his presence of mind in his tight fix. Seating himself upon a divan so as to obviate any repetition of such treatment, he thus addressed his former friend. And if you on your side will overlook the fact that I have unwittingly fascinated your fiancé, I on mine am ready to forget my unmerciful kickings. But Lord Jolly violently rejected such give-and-take compromise, and again declared that if Mr. Bosch declined to fight, he was to receive further kicks.

  Upon this chunder demanded time for reflection. He was no bellicose, but he reasoned thus with his soul. It is not certain that a bullet will hit, whereas it is impossible for a kick to miss its mark. So weeping to find himself between a deep sea and the devil of a kicking, he accepted the challenge, feeling like Imperial Caesar when he found himself compelled to climb up a Rubicon after having burnt his boots. Being naturally reluctant to kick his brimming bucket of life while still a lusty juvenile,

  Mr. Bosch was occupied in lamenting the injudiciousness of Providence when he was most unexpectedly relieved by the entrance of his lady-love, the Princess Jones, who having heard that her letter had fallen into Lord Jack's hands and that a sanguinary encounter would shortly transpire, had cast off every rag of maidenly propriety and sought a clandestine interview. She brought Bindaban the gratifying intelligence that she was a persona grata with his lordship's secondor, Mr. Bodger's, who was to load the deadly weapons and who at her request had promised to do so with cartridges from which the bullets had previously been bereft.

  Such a piece of good news so enlivened Mr. Bosch that he immediately recovered his usual serenity and astounded all by his perfect nonchalance. It was arranged that the tragical affair should come off in the back garden of Baronet Jolly's Castle immediately after breakfast in the presence of a few select friends and neighbours, among whom, needless to say, was Princess Petunia, whose lamp-like optics beamed encouragement at her Indian champion, and the Duchess of Dickinson, who was now the freehold tenement of those fiendish Siamese twins Malice and Jealousy.

  At breakfast, Mr. Bosch partook freely of all the dishes and rallied his antagonist for declining another fowl egg, rather wittily suggesting that he was becoming a chicken-hearted. The company then adjourned at the garden, and all who were non-combatants took up positions as far outside the zone of fire as possible. Mr. Bosch was rejoiced to receive from the above-mentioned Mr. Bodger's a secret intimation that it was the put-up job and a little piece of all right, which emboldened him to make the rather spirited proposal to his lordship that they were to fire not at a distance of one hundred paces

  as originally suggested, but across the more restricted space of a nosekerchief. This daredevilish proposal occasioned a universal outcry of horror and admiration. Mr. Bosch's secondor, a young poor-hearted chap, entreated him to renounce his plan of campaign, while Lord Jack and Mr. Bodger's protested that it was downright tomfolly. Chunder, however, remained game to his backbone.

  If, he ironically said, My honourable friend prefers to admit that he is inferior in physical courage to a native Indian who is commonly accredited with a funky heart, let him apologize. Otherwise, as a challenged, I am the master of the ceremonies. I do not insist upon the exchange of more than one shoot, but it is the sine qua non that such shoot is to take place across a nose-wipe. Upon which the lordship became green as grass with apprehensiveness, being unaware that the cartridges had been carefully sterilized,

  but gluing his courage to the sticky point, he said, Bid so, you bloodthirsty little beggar, and may your gore be on your own knob. It is always possible, retorted Mr. Bosch, that we may both miss the target, and he made a secret motion to Mr. Bodger's with his superior eye-shutter, intimating that he was to remember to omit the bullets. But lackadaisy, as poet Burns sings, the best laid schemes both of men and in the mouse department are liable to gang aft, and so it was in the present instance,

  for Duchess Dickinson intercepted Chunderbindabun's wink, and with the diabolical intuition of a female, divined the presence of a rather suspicious rat. Accordingly, on the diaphanous pretext that Mr. Bodger's was looking faintish and callow, she insisted on applying a very large smelling jar to his nasal organ. Whether the vessel was charged with salts of superhuman potency, or some narcotic drug, I am not to inquire, but the result was that after a period of prolonged sternutation, Mr. Bodger's became impercipient on a bed of geraniums. Thereupon, Chunder, perceiving that he had lost his friend in court, magnanimously said,

  I cannot fight an antagonist who is unprovided with a seconder, and will wait until Mr. Bodger's is recuperated. But the honourable and diabolical Duchess nipped this arrangement in the bud. It would be a pity, said she, that Mr. Bosch's fiery ardour should be cooled by delay. I am capable to load a firearm, and will act as Lord Jolly's seconder. Our hero took the objection that, as a feminine was not legally qualified to act as seconder in mortal combats,

  the duel would be rendered null and void, and appealed to his own seconder to confirm this obitur dictum. Unluckily, the latter was a poor beetle-head who was in excessive fear of offending the Duchess, and gave it as his opinion that sex was no disqualification, and that the Duchess of Dickinson was fully competent to load the lethal weapons, provided that she knew how. Whereupon she, regarding Mr. Bosch with the malignant simper of a fiend,

  did not only deliberately fill each pistol-barrel with a bullet from her own reticule-bag, but also had the additional diablure to extract a miniature laced mouchoir, exquisitely perfumed with cherry-blossoms, and to say, Please fire across this, I am confident that it will bring you good luck. And Mr. Bosch recognized with emotions that baffled the description the very counterpart of the nose-hankerchief

  which she had flung at him months previously at the aforesaid fashionable bayswater ball. Now was our poor miserable hero indeed up the tree of embarrassment, and there I must leave him till the next chapter. Thank you.

• 06 - Lord Jolly Is Satisfied

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  CHAPTER VI. LORD JOLLY IS SATISFIED. Ah, why should two, who once were bosom's friends, Present at one another pistols' ends, Till one pops off to dwell in death's abode, All on account of honour's so-called code?

  CHAPTER VI. Many a more hackneyed duelist than our unfortunate friend Bosch Might well have been frightened from his propriety At the prospect of fighting with genuine bullets Across so undersized a nose-kerchief

  As that which the duchess had furnished for the fray. But Mr. Bosch preserved his head in perfect coolness. It is indisputably true, he said, That I propose to shoot across a pocket-kerchief, But I am not an effeminate female

  That I should employ such a lacelike and flimsy concern as this. As a challenge, I claim my constitutional right under Magna Carta To provide my own nose-wipe. And as even my Lord Jack admitted that this was legally correct, Mr. Bosch produced a very large handsome nose-kerchief in part-coloured silks.

  This he tore into narrow strips, The ends of which he tied together in such a manner That the hole was elongated to an incredible length. Then tossing one extremity to his lordship, And retaining the other in his own hand, he said,

  We will fight, if you please, across this, or not at all. Which caused a working majority of the company, And even Lord Jack Jolly himself to burst into enthusiastic plaudits Of the ingenuity and dexterity with which Mr. Bosch Had contrived to extricate himself from the prongs of his codine fork.

  The duchess, however, was knitting her brows into the baleful pattern of a scowl, For she knew as well as Chandrabindaban himself That no human pistol was capable to achieve such a distance. The duel commenced. His lordship and Mr. Bosch each removed their upper clothings,

  Bared their arms, and taking up a weapon, Awaited the momentous command to fire. It was pronounced, and Lord Jolly's pistol was the first to ring The ambient welkin with its horrid bang. The deadly missile, whistling as it went for want of thought,

  Entered the door of a neighbouring pigeon's house And fluttered the dove-coat confoundedly. Mr. Bosch reserved his fire for the duration of two or three harrowing seconds. Then he too pulled off his trigger, And after the explosion there was a loud cry of dismay.

  The bullet had perforated a large circular orifice In Honourable Bodger's hat, Who by this time had returned to self-consciousness. I could not bring myself to snuff the candle Of your honourable lordship's existence, said Mr. Bosch, bowing,

  But I wished to convince all present that I am not incompetent to hit a mark. And he proceeded to assure Mr. Bodger that he was to receive Full compensation for any moral and intellectual damage Done to his said hat. As for his lordship, he was so overcome by Mr. Bosch's unprecedented magnanimity

  That he shed copious tears, and warmly embracing his former friend, Entreated his forgiveness, Vowing that in future their affection should never again be endangered By so paltry and trivial a cause as the fickle-ty of a feminine. Moreover, he bestowed upon Vindaban the blushing hand of Princess Jones,

  And very hardly wished him joy of her. Now the princess was the solitary brat of a very wealthy merchant prince, Honourable Sir Monarch Jones, Whose proud and palatial storehouses were situated At the most fashionable part of Camden Town.

  Sir Jones, in spite of Lord Jack's resignation, Did not at first regard Mr. Bosch with the paternal eye of approval, But rather advanced the objection that the colour of his money was practically invisible. My daughter, he said hotly, Has to have a lakh of rupees on her nuptials.

  Have you a lakh of rupees? Vindaban was tempted to make the rather facetious reply that he had, Indeed, a lakh of rupees at the present moment. Sir Monarch, however, like too many English gentlemen, Was totally incapable of comprehending the simplest Indian,

  And merely replied, Unless you can show me a lakh of rupees, You cannot become my beloved son-in-law. So, as Mr. Bosch was a confirmed impecunious, He departed in severe despondency.

  However, fortune favoured him as always, For he made the acquaintance of a certain Jewish Scotch, Whose cognomen was Alexander Wallace McAlpine, Who kindly undertook to lend him a lakh of rupees for two days at interest, Which was the mere bite of a flea.

  Having thus acquired the root of all evil, Vindaban took it in a four-wheeled cab, And triumphantly exhibited his hard cash to Sir Jones, Who, being unaware that it was borrowed plumage, Readily consented that he should marry his daughter,

  After which Mr. Bosch honourably restored the lakh to the accommodating Scotch, Minus the interest which he found it inconvenient to pay just then. I am under great apprehensions that my gentle readers, On reading thus far and no farther, will remark, Oh ho, then we are already at the finny,

  Seeing that when a hero and heroine are once booked for cannibial bliss, Their further proceedings are of very mediocre interest. Let me venture upon the respectful caution That every cup possesses a proverbial slippery lip, And that they are by no means to take it as granted

  That Mr. Bosch is so soon married and done for. Remember that he still possesses a rather formidable enemy in Duchess Dickinson, Who is irrevocably determined to insert a spike in his wheel of fortune. For a woman is so constituted that she can never forgive an individual Who has once treated her advances with contempt,

  No matter how good-humoured such contempt may have been. No, misters, if you offend a feminine, You must look out for her squalus. Readers are humbly requested not to toss this fine story aside Under the impression that they have exhausted the cream in its coconut.

  There are many, many incidents to come of highly startling and sensational character.

• 07 - The Adventure of the Unwieldy Gift Horse

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  Chapter 7 of A Bayard from Bengal by F. Anstey. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Don W. Jenkins. Chapter 7. The Adventure of the Unwieldy Gift Horse. When dormant lightning is pent in the polished hoofs of a colt,

  and his neck is clothed with thunder, then horsemen beware of the bolt. From the Persian by H. B. J. In accordance with English usages, Mr. Bosch, being now officially engaged to the fair Princess Jones,

  did dance daily attendance in her company, and she being passionately fond of equitation, he was compelled himself to become the centaur, and act as her cavalier-servant, on a nag which was furnished throughout by a West End livery-jobber.

  Fortunately, he displayed such marvellous dexterity and skill as an equestrian, that he did not once sustain a single reverse. Truly it was a glorious and noble sight to behold Vindaban clinging with imperturbable calmness to the saddle of his steed, as it ambled and gambled in so spirited a manner

  that all the fashionables made sure that he was inevitably to slide over its tail-quarters. But invariably he returned, having suffered no further inconvenience than the bereavement of his tall hat, and the heart of Princess Petunia was uplifted with pride when she saw that her betrothed, in addition to being a B.A. and barrister-at-law,

  was also such a rough rider. It is dérégu in all civilized societies to encourage matrimony by bestowing rewards upon those who are about to come up to the scratch of such holy estate, and consequently splendid gifts of carriage, time-pieces, tea caddies, slices of fish, jewels, blotter cases, biscuit cases,

  cigar lights and pin cushions were poured forth upon Mr. Bosch and his partner, as if from the inexhaustibly bountiful horn of a pharmacopoeia. Last but not least, one morning appeared a sace, leading an unwieldy steed of the complexion of a chestnut, and bearing an anonymously signed paper stating that said horse

  was a cannibial gift to Mr. Bosch from a perfervent admirer. Our friend Bindaban was like to throw his bonnet over the mills with excessive joy, and could not be persuaded to rest until he had made a trial trip upon his gifted horse, while the amiable princess readily consented to become his companion. So on a balmy and luscious afternoon in spring,

  when the malefluous blackbirds, swarrows and other fowls of that ilk were engaged in billing and cooing on the foliage of innumerable trees and bushes, and the blooming flowers were blowing proudly over their polychromatic beds, Mr. Bosch made the ascension of his gift horse, and tit-upped by the sight of his betrothed into the row,

  the observed of all observing masculine and feminine smarties. But hoity-toity he had not tit-upped very many yards, when the unwieldy steed came prematurely to a halt, and adopted an unruly deportment. Mr. Bosch inflicted corporal punishment upon its loins with a golden-headed whip,

  at which the rebellious beast erected itself upon its hinder legs until it was practically a biped. Bindaban, although at the extremity of his wits to preserve his saddle by his firm hold on the bridle rein, undauntedly aimed a swishing glow at the head and front of the offending animal, which instantaneously returned its forelegs to terra firma, but elevated its latter end to such a degree that our hero very narrowly escaped sliding over its neck

  by cleverly clutching the saddle-back. Next the cantankerous steed executed a leap with astounding agility, arching its back like a bow, and propelling our poor friend into the air like the arrow, though by providential luck and management on his part, he descended safely into his seat after every repetition of this dangerous maneuver.

  All things, however, must come to an end at some time, and the unwieldy quadruped at last became weary of leaping, and securing the complete control of his bit did a bolt from the blue. Willy-nilly was Mr. Bosch compelled to accompany it upon its mad bridled career, while all witnesses freely haphazardly conjectured that his abduction would be rather speedily terminated by his being left behind, and I will presume to maintain that a less practical horseman

  would long before have become an ordinary pedestrian. But Bindaban, although both stirrup-holes were untenanted, and he was compelled to hold on to his steed's mane by his teeth and nails, nevertheless remained triumphantly in the ascendant. On and on he rushed, making the entire circumference of the park in his wild delirious canter,

  and when the galloping horse once more reappeared, and Mr. Bosch was perceived to be still snug on his saddle, the spectators were unable to refrain from heartfelt joy. A second time the incorrigible courser careered round the park on his thundering great hoofs, and still our heroic friend preserved his equilibrium.

  But, high-ho, I have to sorrowfully relate that on his third circuit it was the different pair of shoes, for the headstrong animal, abstaining from motion in a rather too abrupt manner, propelled Mr. Bosch over its head with excessive velocity into the elegant interior of a Victoria carriage. He alighted upon a great dame who had maliciously been enjoying the spectacle of his predicament,

  but who now was forced to experience the crushing repartee of his to-quoke, for such a forcible collision with his person caused her not only two blackened optics, but irremediable damage to the leather of her nose. The pristine beauty of her features was irrecoverably dismantled, while Mr. Bosch, thanks to his landing on such soft and yielding material,

  remained intact and able to return to his domicile in a four-wheeled cab. Beloved reader, however susceptible thou mayest be, thou wilt infallibly admire with me the inscrutable workings of Nemesis, when thou learnedest that the aforesaid great lady was no other than the Duchess of Dickinson, and, what is still more wonderful, that it was she who had insidiously presented him

  with such a fearful gift of the Donates as an obstreperous and unwieldy steed. Truly, as poet Shakespeare sagaciously observes, there is a divinity that rough-hues our ends, however we may endeavour to preserve their shapeliness.

• 08 - A Rightabout Facer for Mr. Bhosh

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  CHAPTER VIII. A WRITE ABOUT FACER FOR MR. BOSH Hello, at a sudden your love warfare has changed. Your dress is changed. Your address is changed. Your express is changed. Your mistress is changed. Hello, at a sudden your funny fair is changed. A song sung by a messengerous binda before Christenji, Dr. Ram Kinnu Dutt of Chittagong. Those who are affa in the tortoise involutions of the feminine disposition will hear without astonishment that Duchess Dickinson, so far from being chastened and softened by the circumstance that the curse she had launched at Mr. Bosh's head had returned, like an elominous raven to roost upon her own nose and irreparably destroy its contour, was only the more bitterly incensed against him. Instead of interring the hatchet that had flown back, as if it were that fabulous volatile, the boomerang, she was in a greater stew than ever, and resolved to leave no stone unturned to trip him up. But what trick to play, seeing that all the honours were in Mr. Bosh's hands!

  She could not officiate as marplot to discredit him in the affections of his lady-love, since the princess was too severely enamoured to give the loan of her ear to any sibilations from a snake in the grass. How else, then, to hinder his match? At this she was seized with an idea worthy of macaroni himself. She paid a complimentary visit to the princess, arrayed in the sheepish garb of a friend, and contrived to lure the conversation on to the vexed question of prying into futurity. Surely, she artfully suggested, the princess, at such a momentous epoch of her existence had, of course, not neglected the sensible precaution of consulting some competent soothsayer, respecting the most propitious day for her nuptials with the accomplished Mr. Bosh. What, had she omitted to pop so important a question? How incredibly harebrained! Fortunately, there was yet time to do the needful, and she herself would gladly volunteer to accompany the princess on such an errand. Princess Petunia fell a ready victim into the jaws of this diabolical booby-trap, and inquired the address and name of the cleverest necromancer, for it is matter of notoriety that London ladies are quite as superstitious and addicted to working the oracle as their native Indian sisters.

  The duchess replied that the astrologer royal was a faque les princeps at uttering a prediction, and accordingly, on the very next day, she and the princess, after disguising themselves, set forth on the summit of a tramway bus to the observatory temple of Greenwich, where, after first propitiating the prophet by offerings, they were ushered into a darkened inner chamber. Although they were strictly pseudo, he at once informed them of their genuine cognomance, and also told them much concerning their past, of which they had hitherto been ignorant. And to the princess, he said, stroking the long and silvery hairs of his beard, My daughter, I foresee many calamities which will inevitably befall thee shouldst thou marry before the day on which the bridegroom wins a certain contest called the derby with the horse of his own. The gentle petunia departed melancholy as a gib-cat, since Mr. Bosch was not the happy possessor of so much as a single racing-horse of any description,

  and it was therefore not feasible that he should become entitled to wear the cordon bleu of the turf in his button-hole on his wedding day. With many sighs and tears, she imparted her piece of news to the horror-stricken ears of our hero, who earnestly assured her that it was contrary to common sense and bonos mores to attach any importance to the mere ipsy dixit of so antiquated a charlatan as the astrologer royal, who was utterly incapable, except at very long intervals, to bring about even such a simple affair as an eclipse which was visible from his own observatory. However, the princess being a feminine was naturally more prone to puro credulities, and very solemnly declared that nothing would induce her to kneel by Mr. Bosch's side at the torch of Hymen until he should first have distinguished himself as a derby-winner.

  Whereat Mr. Bosch, perceiving that the date of his nuptial ceremony was become a dies non in a Grecian calendar, did wring his hands in a bath of tears. Alas, he was totally unaware that it was his implacable enemy, the Duchess Dickinson, who had thus upset his apple-cart of felicity. But so it was, for by a clandestine bribe she had corrupted the astrologer royal, a poor, weak, very avaricious old chap, to trump out such a disastrous prediction. Some he rose in this hard plight would have thrown up the leak, but Mr. Bosch was stuffed with sterner materials. He swore a very long oath by all the gods that he had ceased to believe in, that sooner or later, by hook or crook, he would win the derby race, though entirely destitute of horse-flesh, and very ill able to afford to purchase the most mediocre quadruped.

  Here some sporting readers will probably object. Why could he not enlist his unwieldy gift-horse among derby candidates, and so hoist the Duchess on the pinnacle of her own petard? To which I reply, Too clever by halves, misters, in primis. The steed in question was of far too ferocious a temperament, though undeniably swift-footed, ever to become a favourite with derby judges. Secondly, after dismounting Mr. Bosch, it had again taken to its heels and departed into the unknown, nor had Mr. Bosch troubled himself to ascertain its private address. But fortune favours the brave. It happened that Mr. Bosch was one day promenading down the Bayswater Road when he was passed by a white horse drawing a milk-chariot with unparalleled velocity, outstripping omnibuses, wagons, and even butcher carts in its wind-like progress, which was unguided by any restraining hand, for the milk-charioteer himself was pursuing on foot. His natural poissants in equine affairs enabled Mr. Bosch to infer that the steed, which could cut such a record when handicapped with a cumbrous dairy chariot, would exhibit even greater speed if in purist naturalibus, and that it might even not improbably carry off first prize in the derby race.

  So as the milk-charioteer ran up, overblown with anxiety, to learn the result of his horse's escapade, Mr. Bosch stopped him to inquire what he would take for such an animal. The dairy vendor, rather foolishly taking it for granted that horse and cart were gone concerns, thought he was making the good stroke of business in offering the lot for a twenty-pound note. "'I have done with you!' cried Mr. Bosch sharply, handing over the purchase money, which he very fortunately chanced to have about him, and yalloping off to inspect his bargain which was like buying a pig after once poking it in the ribs. In what condition he found it, I must leave you to learn, my dear readers, in an ensuing chapter." End of chapter 8, read by Don W. Jenkins, Rancho San Diego, California, shaggybark.blogspot.com

• 09 - The Dark Horse

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  Chapter 9 of A Bayard from Bengal by F. Anstey This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Don W. Jenkins Chapter 9 The Dark Horse Full many a mare with coat of milkiest sheen

  Is dyed in dark unfathomed coal mine's drab. Full many a flyer's born to blush unseen And waste her swiftness on a handsome cab. Lines to order by a young English friend Who swears they are original, but I regard them

  As an unconscious plagiarism from poet Young's Eulogy of a country cemetery, H. B. J. It is a gain, a precious, let me gain, Let me gain, O potentate, O potentate, The shower of thine secret shoe-dust, O potentate, O potentate,

  Dr. Ram Kinnu Dutt of Chittagong. We left Mr. Bosch in full pursuit of the runaway horse And milk-chariot which he had so spiritedly purchased While still en route. After running a mile or two He was unspeakably rejoiced to find that the

  Equipage had automatically come to a standstill And was still in prime condition with the exception of The lacteal fluid which had made its escape from the pails. Bindaban, however, was not disposed to wheat for long Over spilt milk, and had the excessive magnanimity

  To restore the chariot and pails to the dairy merchant Who was beside himself with gratitude. Then Mr. Bosch, with a joyful heart, having detached His purchase from the shafts, conducted it in triumph To his domicile. It turned out to be a mare

  White as snow and of marvellous amiability, And partly because of her origin, and partly from her complexion He christened her by the appellation of Milky Way. Although perforce a complete ignoramus in the art Of educating a horse to win any equine contest,

  Mr. Bosch's nude common sense told him that The first step was to fatten his rather too filamentous Pupil with corn and similar seeds, and after a prolonged Course of bean feasts he had the gratification to behold His mare filling out as plump as a dumpling.

  As he desired her to remain the dark horse as long as possible He concealed her in a small tool shed at the end of the garden, Ministering to her wants with his own hands, and conducting Her for daily nocturnal constitutionals several times Round the central grass patch.

  For some time he refrained from mounting. Fain would he climb but that he feared to fall, As poet Bunyan once scratched with a diamond on Queen Anne's window. But at length, reflecting that if nothing ventures Nothing is certain to win, he purchased a padded saddle

  With appendages and surmounted Milky Way, who, far from Regarding him as an interloper, appeared gratified by his Arrival and did her utmost to make him feel thoroughly at home. The next step was, of course, to obtain permission from the Pundits who rule the roast of the jockey club that Milky Way

  Might be allowed to compete in the approaching derby. Now this was a more delicately ticklish matter than might be Supposed, owing to the circumstance that the said pundits are such Warm men, and so well endowed with this world's riches that they Are practically non-corruptible.

  Fortunately Mr. Bosch, as a dabster in English composition, was a Past master in drawing a petition, and sitting down to Construct the following. To those most worshipful big heads in control of jockey's club, Benign personages, this petition humbly showeth, one, that your

  Petitioner is a native Indian Cambridge B.A., a barrister at Law, and a most loyal and devoted subject of Her Majesty the Queen Empress. Two, that it is of excessive importance for him for private Reasons that he should win a derby race.

  Three, that such a famous victory would be eminently popular with All classes of Indian natives and inordinately increase their Affection for British rule. Four, that for some time past your petitioner has been diligently Training a quadruped which he fondly hopes may gain a victory.

  Five, that said quadruped is a member of the fair sex. Six, that she is a female horse of very docile disposition but Being only recently extracted from shafts of a dairy chariot is a Total neophyte in derby racing. Seven, that your Lordships may direct that she is to be kindly

  Permitted to try her luck in this world famous competition. Eight, that it would greatly encourage her to exhibit top most Speed if she could be allowed to start running a few minutes Previously to older stagers. Nine, that if this is unfortunately contrary to regulation,

  Then the judge should receive secret instructions to look with a Favorable eye upon said female horse whose name is Milky Way and Award her first prize even if by any chance she may not prove quite So fast to run her as more professional hacks. And your petitioner will ever pray on bended knees that so truly

  Magnificent an institution as the Epsom Derby Course may never be Suppressed on grounds of encouraging national vice of gambling and So forth, signed, etc. The wording of the above proved Mr. Bosch's profound acquaintance With the human heart for it instantaneously attained the desired end.

  The honorable stewards returned a very kind answer readily Consenting to receive Milky Way as a candidate for Derby honors. But regretting that it was ultra viris to concede her a few minutes Start and intimating that she must start with a scratch in company With all the other horses.

  Vindaban was not in the least degree cast down or depressed by this Refusal of a start since he had not entertained any sanguine hope That it would be granted and had only inserted it to make insurance Doubly sure for he was every day more confident that Milky Way was to win Even though obliged to step off with the rank and file.

  End of chapter nine read by Don W. Jenkins Rancho San Diego, California shaggy bark dot blogspot dot com.

• 10 - Trust Her Not! She Is Fooling Thee!

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  Chapter 10 of Abired from Bengal by F. Anstey This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Don W. Jenkins Chapter 10 Trust her not, she is fooling thee.

  As the sun set flames most fiery when snuffed out by sudden night, As the swan reserves its twitter till about to hop the twig, As the cobra's head swells biggest just before he does his bite, So a feminine smiles her sweetest ere she gives her nastiest dig. Satirical Stanza unpublished by H.B.J.

  Now that our hero had obtained that the name of Milky Way was to be inscribed on the Golden Book of Derby candidates, his next proceeding was to hire a practical jockey to assume supreme command of her. And this was no simple matter, since practical jockeys are usually hired many weeks beforehand and demand handsome wages for taking their seats. But at last, after protracted advertisements, Mr. Bosch had the good fortune to pitch upon a perfect treasure,

  whose name was Cadwallader Perkin, and who for his riding in some race or other had been awarded a whole year's holiday by the stewards who had observed the paramountcy of his horsemanship. No sooner had Perkin inspected Milky Way than he was quite in love with his stable companion and assured his employer that with more regular out-of-door exercise she would be easily competent to win the derby on her head. Whereupon Mr. Bosch consented that she should be galloped after dark around the inner circle of Regent's Park,

  which is chiefly populated at such a time by male and female bicyclists. But in order to pay Perkin's charges and also to provide a silken jockey tunic and cap of his own racing colours, which were cream and sky blue, Mr. Bosch was compelled to borrow more money from Mr. McAlpin, who as a Jewish Scotch extracted the rather exorbitant interest of sixty per centum. It leaked out in some manner that Milky Way was a coming derby favourite,

  and the property of a native young Indian sportsman whose entire fortunes depended on her success, and soon immense multitudes congregated in Regent's Park to witness her trials of speed and cheered enthusiastically to behold the fiery sparks scintillating from the stones as she circumvented the inner circle in seven league debuts. Mr. Bosch, of course, asseverated that she was a very mediocre sort of mare

  and that he did not at all expect that she would prove a winner. But connoisseurs, nevertheless, betted long odds upon her success, and Bindaban himself, though not a speculative, did put on the pot himself upon the golden egg which he was so anxiously hatching. One evening, amongst those who were gathered to view the nocturnal exercises of Milky Way,

  there appeared a feminine spectator of rather sinister aspect in a thick veil and a Victoria carriage. It was no other than Duchess Dickinson, who had somehow learnt how courageously Mr. Bosch was endeavouring to fulfil the astrologer royale's prediction, and who had come to ascertain whether his mare was indeed such a paragon of celerity as had been represented. The very first time that Milky Way cantered past with the gait of a streak of lightning,

  the Duchess realised with a sinking heart that Mr. Bosch must indubitably succeed at the derby, unless he was prevented. But how to achieve this? Her womanly instinct told her that Cadwallader Perkin was far too inexperienced to resist for long such mature and ripened charms as hers,

  even though the latter were unfortunately discounted by the accidental nose-flattening. So, lowering her veil till only her eyes were visible above, she waited till he passed once more, then flung him such a liquid and flashing glance from her starry and now no longer discoloured optics, that the young jockey, who was of an excessively susceptible disposition, all but fell off the saddle with emotion, like a very juvenile bird under serpentine observation.

  He is mine, said the unscrupulous Duchess internally, laughing up her sleeve at such a proof of her fascinations. Mine, mine! She had too much intelligence and mother wit, however, to take any steps until Mr. Bosch should be safely out of the way, and how to accomplish his removal. As an acquaintance with the above-mentioned user McAlpin,

  she was aware that he had advanced large loans to Mr. Bosch, and so she laid her plans and bided her time. There soon remained only one day before the carnival of all sparting Saturn aliens, the Epson Derby Day, and Vindabund formed the prudent resolution to avoid any delays or crushings by putting Milky Way into a railway box, and dispatching her to Epson on the previous afternoon under the chaperonage of Cadwallader Perkin, who was to engage suitable lodgings for her in the vicinity of the course.

  But just as Vindabund was approaching the booking-hole of Victoria Terminus to take a horse ticket, lo and behold he was wrapped on the shoulder by a couple of policemen, who civilly inquired whether his name was not Bosch. He replied that it was, and that he was the lucky proprietor of a female horse who was infallibly destined to win the derby, and that he was even now proceeding to purchase her travelling ticket. But the policemen insisted that he must first discharge the full amount of his debt and costs to Mr. McAlpin, who had commenced a lawsuit.

  "'It is highly inconvenient to pay now,' replied our hero, "'I will settle up after receiving my derby stakes.'" "'We are infernally sorry,' said the constables, "'but we have instructions to imprison you until the amount is stumped up, and anything you say now will be taken down and used against you at your trial.'"

  Mr. Bosch remained sotovocce, and as he was being led off with gives upon his wrists like Aram the usher, whom should he behold but the Duchess of Dickinson? Like all truly first-class heroes, he was of a generous, confiding nature, and his head was not for a moment entered by the suspicion that the Duchess could still cherish any ill feelings towards him. "'I am sincerely sorry,' he said with good-humoured gallantry,

  "'to observe that your ladyship's nose-leather is still in such bad repair. I was riding a rather muscular steed that afternoon, and could not thoroughly control my movements.' She suavely responded that she was proud to have been the means of breaking his fall. "'Not only my fall, but your own nose,' retorted Mr. Bosch sympathetically. "'A sad pity! Fortunately, at your time of life such disfigurements are of no consequence.

  I myself am now in the pretty pickle.' And he explained how he had been arrested for debt, at the very moment when he was appointed to meet his mare and jockey, and see them safely off by the Epsom train. "'Do not trouble about that,' said the Duchess.

  "'Hand me your purse, and I myself will meet them and do the needful on your behalf. I have interest with this Mr. McAlpin, and will intercede that you are let out immediately.' Mr. Bosch kissed her hand as he handed over his sad purse. "'This is indeed a noble return for my cold-heartedness,' he said, and I am even more sorry than before that I should have involuntarily dilapidated so exquisite a nose.'

  "'Pray do not mention it,' replied the Duchess, with the baleful simper of a sphinx. And Mr. Bosch departed for his Durrance Vial with a mind totally free from misgivings."

• 11 - Stone Walls Do Not Make a Cage

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  CHAPTER XI. STONE WALLS DO NOT MAKE A CAGE Oh, give me back my Arab steed, I cannot ride alone, Or tell me where my beautiful, my four-legged bird has flown. T'was here she arched her glossy back beside the fountain's brink, And after that I know no more, but I came off, I think.

  More so-called original lines by a foresaid young English friend, But I have the shrewd suspicion of having read them before somewhere. H. B. J. And now, O gentle and sympathetic reader, Behold our unfortunate hero confined in the darkest bowels of the old Bailey dungeon For the mere crime of being an impecunious.

  Yes, misters, in spite of all your boasted love of liberty and fresh air, Imprisonment for debt is still part of the law of the land. How long will you deafen your ears to the pitiable cry of the bankrupt As he pleads for the order of his discharge? Perhaps it has been preserved for a native Indian novelist

  To jog the elbow of so-called British jurisprudence And call its attention to such a shocking scandal. Mr. Bosch found his prison most devilishly dull. Some prisoners have been known to beguile their captivity By making pets or playmates out of most unpromising materials.

  For instance, and exempli gratia, Mr. Monte Cristo met an abbey in his dungeon Who gave him a tip-top education. Mr. Picchiola watered a flower. The prisoner of Ceylon made chums of his chains,

  While Honorable Bruce, as is well known, Succeeded in taming a spider to climb up a thread And fall down seven times in succession. But Mr. Bosch had no spider to amuse him, And the only flowers growing in his dungeon were toadstools

  Which do not require to be watered, Nor did there happen to be any abbey Confined in the old Bailey at the time. Nevertheless, he was preserved from despair By his indomitable native chirpiness.

  For was not Milky Way a dead set for the derby? And when she came out at the top of the pole Would he not be the gainer of sufficient untold gold Besides winning the hand of Princess Petunia, He was waited upon by the head jailer's daughter,

  A damsel of considerable pokertude by the name of Caroline, Who at first regarded him a scant as a malefactor. But on learning from her parent that his sole offence Was insuperable pennilessness, Her tender heart was softened with pity to behold

  Such a young, gentlemanly Indian captive clanking in billows, And soon they became thick as thieves. Like all the inhabitants of Great Britain, Her thoughts were entirely engrossed in the approaching derby race, And she very innocently narrated how it was matter of common knowledge

  That a notorious grand dam, To wit the fashionable Duchess of Dickinson, Had backed heavily that Milky Way was to fail Like the flash of a pan. Whereupon Mr. Bosch,

  Recollecting that he had actually entrusted his invaluable mare With her concomitant jockey To the mercy of this selfsame Duchess Was harrowed with sudden misgivings. By shrewd cross-questions he soon eliminated

  That Mr. McAlpin was a pal of the Duchess, Which she had herself admitted at the Victoria Terminus. And thus by dent of penetrating instinct Mr. Bosch easily unraveled the tangled labyrinth Of a hideous conspiracy,

  Which caused him to beat his head vehemently Against the walls of his cell at the thought of his utter impotentiality. Like all feminines who were privileged to make his acquaintance, Miss Carolyn was transfixed with passionate adoration for Vindaban, Whom she regarded as a gallant and ill-used innocent,

  And resolved to assist him to cut his lucky. To this end she furnished him with a file And a silken ladder of her own knitting. But unfortunately Mr. Bosch, having never before undergone incarceration, Was a total neophyte in effecting his escape

  By such dangerous and antiquated procedures, Which he firmly declined to employ, Urging her to sneak the paternal key-bunch And let him out at daybreak by some back entrance. And not to crack the wind of this poor story

  While rendering it as short as possible, She yielded to his entreaties and contrived to restore him To the priceless boon of liberty the next morning at about 5 a.m. Oh, the unparalleled raptures of finding himself once more free as a bird! It was the dawn of the derby day,

  And Mr. Bosch precipitated himself to his dwelling, Intending to array himself in all his best And go down to Epsom, where he was in hopes of encountering his horse. Hey, day, what was his chagrin to see his jockey, Cadwallader Perkin, approaching with streaming eyes,

  Fling himself at his master's feet and implore him to be merciful? How comes it, Cadwallader? sternly inquired Mr. Bosch, That you are not on the heath of Epsom instead of wallowing like this on my shoes. I do not know, was the whimpered response. Then pray, where is my derby favourite, Milky Way? demanded Bindaban.

  I cannot tell, wailed out the lacrimose juvenile. Then, after prolonged pressure, he confessed that the duchess had met him at the station portals, And on the plea that there was abundance of spare time to book the mare, Easily persuaded him to accompany her to the buffet of refreshment room. There she plied him with a stimulant, which jockeys are proverbially unable to resist,

  That is, brandy-cherries, in such profusion that he promptly became cataliptic in a corner. When he returned to sobriety, neither the duchess nor the mare was perceptible to his naked eye, And he had been searching in vain for them ever since. It was the time not for words but deeds, And Mr. Bosch did not indulge in futile irascibility,

  That sat down and composed a reply-wire to the clerk of course, Epson, couched in these simple words, Have you seen my derby mare, Bosch? After the suspense of an hour, the reply came in the discouraging form of an abrupt negative, Upon which Mr. Bosch thus addressed the abashed Perkin, Even should I recapture my mare in time, you have proved yourself unworthy of writing her,

  Strip off your racing-coating cap, and I will engage some more reliable equestrian. The lad handed over the taugery which Bindemann stuffed being of very fine soaking tissue into his coat-pocket, After which he hurried off to Victoria in great agitation to make inquiries. There the officials treated his modest requests in very off-handed style, And he was becoming all of a twitter with anxiety and humiliation when,

  Maraboli dictu! all of a sudden his ears were regaled by the well-known sound of a whinny, And he recognized the beloved voice of Milky Way. But whence did it proceed? He ran to and fro in uncontrollable excitement, endeavouring to locate the sound, But there was no trace of a horse in any of the waiting-rooms.

  But at length he discovered that his mare had been locked up in the left luggage department, And summoning a porter, Mr. Bosch had at last the indescribable felicity to embrace his kidnapped mare, Derby favourite, Milky Way. End of chapter 11 Read by Don W. Jenkins

  Rancho San Diego, California shaggybark.blogspot.com

• 12 - A Race Against Time

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  Chapter 12 of A Bayard from Bengal by F. Anstey This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Don W. Jenkins Chapter 12 A Race Against Time There's a certain old sprinter, you've got to be keen,

  If you'd beat him although he is bald, And he carries a clock and a mowing machine, On the cinder-path tempus, he's called. The plans are written to order by a young English friend, But I fear it copied from poet Tennyson.

  Ah, with what perfurved affection did Mr. Bosch Caress the neck of his precious horse! How carefully he searched her to make sure that she had Sustained no internal poisonings or other dilapidations! Thank goodness he was unable to detect any flaw within or without,

  The probability being that the crafty duchess did not dare To commit such a breach of decorum as to poison a derby favorite, And thought to accomplish her fell design by leaving the mare As lost luggage and destroying the ticket receipt. But old time had already lifted the glass to his lips,

  And the contents were rapidly running down. So Mr. Bosch, approaching a railway director, Politely requested him to hook a horse-box On to the next Epson train. What was his surprise to hear that this could not be done

  Until all derby trains had first absented themselves. With passionate volubility he pleaded that if such a law Of Medes and Persians was to be insisted on, Milky Way would infallibly arrive at Epson several hours too late To compete in the derby race, in which she was already morally victorious,

  Until at length the official relented and agreed to do the job For valuable consideration and hard cash. Lackadaisy! After excavating all his pockets, Our unhappy hero could only fork out wherewithal enough For third-class single ticket for himself,

  And he accordingly petitioned that his mare might travel As baggage in the guard's van. I am not to say whether the officials at this leading terminus Were all in the pay of the duchess, since I am naturally reluctant To advance so serious a charge against such industrious and talented parties.

  But it is n'en con that Mr. Bosch's very reasonable request Was nilled in highly offensive and cut-and-dried fashion, And he was curtly recommended to walk himself and his horse off the platform. Que faire! How was it humanly possible for any horse To win the derby without putting in an appearance?

  And how was Milky Way to put in her appearance If she was not allowed access to any Epson train? A less willful and persevering individual than Mr. Bosch Would have certainly succumbed under so much red tapery, But it only served to arouse Bindaban's monkey.

  How far is the distance to Epson? he inquired. Fourteen miles, he was answered. And what o'clock the derby race? About one p.m. And it is now just the middle of the day, exclaimed Bindaban.

  Very well, since it seems Milky Way is not to ride in the railway, She shall cover the distance on Shanks Mare, For I will ride her to Epson in propria persona. So courageous a determination elicited loud cheers from the bystanders, Who cordially advised him to put his best legs foremost

  As he mounted his meddlesome crack, And set off with broken neck speed for Epson. I must request my indulgent readers to excuse this humble pen From depicting the horrors of that wild and desperate ride. Suffice it to say that the road was chocked full

  With every description of conveyance, And that Mr. Bosch was haunted by two terrible apprehensions, That is, that he might meet with some shocking upset, And that he should arrive the day after the fair. As he urged on his headlong career,

  He was constantly inquiring of the occupants of the various vehicles If he was still in time for the derby, And they invariably hallowed to him that if he desired to witness the spectacle He was to buck himself up. Mr. Bosch bucked himself up to such good purpose

  That long before the clock struck one His eyes were gladdened by beholding the summit of Epson Grandstand On the distant hilltops. Leaning himself forward he whispered in the shell-like ear of Milky Way, Only one more effort, and we shall have preserved both our beacons.

  But alas, he had the mortification to perceive That the legs of Milky Way were already becoming tremulous From incipient grogginess. And now, beloved reader, let me respectfully beg you To imagine yourself on the Epson derby course

  Immediately prior to the grand event. What a marvellous human farragot! All classes hobnobbing together higgledy-piggledy, Archbishops with acrobats, Ventures with bumpkins,

  Counts with candlestick-makers, Dukes with druggists, And so on through the entire alphabet. Some spectators in carriages, Others on terra firma,

  Flags flying, bands blowing, Innumerable refreshment tents Rearing their heads proudly into the blue imperium, Policemen gazing with smiling countenances On the happy multitudes

  When not engaged in running them in. Now they are conducting the formality of weighing the horses To see if they are qualified as competitors for the derby gold cup. And each horse, as it steps out of the balancing scales And is declared eligible,

  Commences to prance jubilantly Upon the emerald green turf. N. B. The rider of above realistic description Has never been actually present at any derby race, But has done it all entirely from a seduous cramming of sporting fictions.

  This is surely deserving of recognition from a generous public. Now follows a period of dismay, For Milky Way, the favourite of high and low, Is suddenly discovered to be still the dark horse. The only person who exhibits gratification

  Is the Duchess Dickinson, Who makes her entrance into the most fashionable betting ring, And, accosting a leading Welscher, Cries in exulting accents, I will bet a million to a monkey against Milky Way.

  Even the Welscher himself is appalled by the enormity of such a stake, And earnestly counsels the Duchess to substitute a more economical wager. But she scornfully rejects his well-meant advice, And with a trembling hand he inscribes the bet in his welching book. No sooner has he done so than the saddling bell breaks forth into a joyous chime,

  And the crowd is convulsed by indescribable emotions. Huzzah, huzzah! they shout. Welcome to the missing favourite, and three cheers for Milky Way. The Duchess had turned as pale as a witch, For galloping along the course she beholds Mr. Bosch,

  Bereft of his tall hat, and covered with perspiration and dust, On the very steed which she fondly hoped had been mislaid among the left baggage.

• 13 - A Sensational Derby Struggle

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  CHAPTER XIII. A SENSATIONAL DERBY STRUGGLE. Is it for sordid pelth that horses race? Or can it be the glory that they go for? Neither, they know the steed that shows best pace will get his flogging all the sooner over. Reflection at a race-course, H. B. J. The Duchess, seeing that her plot was foiled by the unexpected arrival of Mr. Bosch, made the frantic endeavour to hedge herself behind another bed of a million sterling to a monkey that Milky Way was to come off conqueror, but in vain, since none of the Welshers would conceive such very long odds. So, wrapping her features in a veil of feminine duplicity, she advanced swimmingly to meet Mr. Bosch.

  How lucky that you have arrived on the nick of time, she said. And you have ridden all the way from town? Tell me now, would you not and your dear horse like some refreshment after so tedious a journey? Madam, said Mr. Bosch, bowing to his saddle-bow while his optics remained fixed upon the Duchess with a withering glare, we are not taking any from your hands. This crushing sarcasm totally abashed the Duchess, who perceived that he had penetrated her schemes and crept away in discomfiture. After this incident, Milky Way was subjected to the ordeal of trying her weight, which she passed with honours, for, very fortunately as it turned out, the twenty-four hours' starvation which she had endured as left luggage had reduced her to the prescribed number of mounds which she would otherwise have infallibly exceeded, since Mr. Bosch, being as yet a tyro in training derby-cracks, had allowed her to acquire a superfluous obesity. Thus, once more, the machinations of the Duchess had only benefited the very individual they were intended to injure. But it remained necessary to hire a practical jockey, since Cadwallader Perkin was still lamenting in dust and ashes at home.

  So Mr. Bosch ran about from pillow to post, endeavouring to borrow a rider for Milky Way. Owing probably to the Duchess's artifices, he encountered nothing but refusals and pleas of previous engagement, until at the end of the tether of his patience he said, Since my mare cannot compete in our riderless condition, I myself will assume command and steer her to victory. Upon which gallant speech the entire air became darkened by clouds of upthrown hats and shouts of, Bravo, Bindabun! But upon this the pertinacious Duchess lodged the objection that he was not in correct taugery, and that even if he still retained his tall hat, it would be contrary to etiquette to ride the derby in a frockcoat. Where are his racing colours? she demanded. Here, cried Mr. Bosch, pulling forth the cream and sky-blue silken jacket and cap from his pockets, and discarding his frockcoat he assumed the garbage of a jockey in the twinkle of a jiffy. I protest, then cried the undaunted Duchess, against such cruelty to animals as racing an overblown mare so soon after she has galloped from London.

  Your structure is just, oh humane and distinguished lady, responded the Judge, who had conceived a violent attachment to Milky Way and her owner, and I will willingly postpone the race for an hour or two until the horse has recovered her breeze. Quite unnecessary, said Bindabun. My mare is not such a weakling as you imagine, and will be as fit as a flea after she has imbibed one or two champagne bottles. And his prediction was literally fulfilled, for the champagne soon tendered Milky Way, playful as a kitten. Mr. Bosch ascended into his saddle. The other horses were drawn up in single rank. The starter brandished his flag, and the curtain rose in such a race as has perhaps never been equaled in the annals of the derby.

  The rival cracks were named as follows. Topsy Turvy, Pooja, Brandy Pawnee, Tiffin Bell, TriPod, Quibono, British Jurisprudence, and Rosiate Smell. The betting was even in the field. Pooja was a tall horse with a nude tail but excessively nimble. TriPod, on the contrary, was a small cob of sluggish habits and needing to be constantly pricked. Tiffin Bell was a piebald of goodly proportions, and Rosiate Smell was of same sex as Milky Way, though more vixenish in character. Not long after the start, Mr. Bosch was chagrined to discover that he was all behindhand, and he almost despaired of overtaking any of his forerunners.

  Moreover, he was already oppressed by painful soreness due to so constantly coming in contact with the saddle during his ride from London. But in for a penny, in for a pound of flesh, and he plotted on, and soon had the good luck to recapture some of his lost ground. It was the old fabulous anecdote of the hare and the tortoise. First of all, Topsy Turvy was tripped up by a rabbit's hole. Then Rosiate Smell leaped the barrier and joined the spectators, while TriPod sprained his offside ankle.

  Gradually Mr. Bosch passed Brandy Ponny, Quibon O, and British Jurisprudence, until on arriving at Tottenham Court Corner, only Tiffin Bell and Pooja remained in the running. Tiffin Bell became so discouraged by the near approach of Milky Way that he dwindled his pace to a paltry trot. So Mr. Bosch was easily enabled to defeat him, after which by cyclopean efforts he urged his mare until she and Pooja were cheaped by jowl. For some time it was the ding-dong race between a hammer and tongs. Still, as the quadrupeds plowed their way on, Pooja cheerlessly refused to give plasa dham, and Milky Way began to drop to the rear.

  Seeing that she was utterly incompetent to accelerate her speed and therefore in imminent danger of being defeated, Chunderbindavan had the happy inspiration to make an appeal to the best feelings of the rival jockey whose name was Juggins. Juggins? he wheezed in an agonized whisper. I am a poor native Indian, totally unpracticed in derby riding. Show me some magnanimous action and allow Milky Way to take first prize, Juggins.

  But Mr. Juggins responded that he earnestly desired that Pooja should obtain said prize and applied a rather severe whipsmack to his willing horse. My mare is the favourite, Juggins, pleaded Mr. Bosch. By defeating her you will land yourself in the bad odour of the Hoi Palloy. Have you considered that, Juggins? Juggins' only reply was to administer more whipsmacks, but Chunderbindavan persevered.

  Consider my hard case, Juggins. If I am beaten, I will lose both a plasa ntsuksoor and the pot of money. If, on the other hand, I come in first at the head of the winning pole, I promise to share my entire fortune with you. Upon this the kind-hearted and venial equestrian relented, warmly protesting that he would rather be a proxime accessible horse than a horse. He was more than a proxime accessate and second-fiddle than deprive another human being of all his earthly felicity,

  and accordingly he reigned in his impetuous courser with such consummate skill that Milky Way forged ahead by the length of a nose. Thus they galloped past the grandstand, and as Mr. Bosch gazed upwards and described the elegant form of the Princess Petunia standing upon the topmost roof, and waving his cap in a chivalrous salute, cried out, Hip, hip, hip, I am ramping in. Then, I hear the reader exclaim,

  It is all over and Milky Way is victorious. Please, my honourable friend, do not be so premature. I have not said that the race was over. There are still some yards to the judges' bench, and it is always on the racing cards that Pooja may prove the winner after all.

  Such inquisitive curiosity shall be duly satisfied in the next chapter, which is also the last.

• 14 - A Grand Finish

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  CHAPTER XIV. A GRAND FINISH. Happy Aurora is a happy Aurora. Hip, hip, hip, hip, hurrah, hurrah! Dr. Ram Kinnudutt of Chittagong. On the summit of the grandstand might have been observed groups of spectators eagerly awaiting the finish.

  Conspicuous amongst them were Princess Petunia, most sumptuously attired, and her parent, Merchant Prince Jones, and close by Duke and Duchess Dickinson, following the classic contest through binocular glasses. Pooja will prove to be the winner! No, it is Milky Way! They are neck or nothing! It will be a deceased heat! exclaimed the excited populaces. And the beauteous Petunia was as if seated upon the spike of suspense, since Mr. Bosch's success was a scenic one-non of their union.

  Suddenly came the glad shout, The favorite takes the cake with a canter! And Duchess Dickinson became pallid with anguish, for, rich as she was, she could ill afford to become the loser of a cool million. The shout was strictly voracious, for Mr. Bosch was ruling the roast by half a head, and Pooja was correspondingly behind. Mokte vrtute! cried Princess Petunia, in the silvery tones of a highly bred bell, while she violently agitated her sun umbrella. O my beloved Mendeban, do not fall behind at eleven o'clock.

  And as though in answer to this appeal, which he did not overhear, she beheld her triumphant suitor saluting the empress of his soul with uplifted jockey-cap. Alack, it was the fatal piece of politeness, since to avoid falling off he was compelled to moderate the speed of his racer while performing it, and Juggins, either repenting his good nature or unable any longer to restrain the impetuosity of Pooja, was carried first past the winning pole. Mr. Bosch following on Milky Way as the bad second. At this the Princess Petunia emitted a doleful scream, like freedom which, as some poet informs us, squeaked when Kokiyusko, a Japanese gentleman, fell,

  and suspended her animation for several minutes, while the Duchess grinned a horrible ghastly smile, as described by poet Milton in Paradise Lost. At Mr. Bosch's shocking defeat, and her own gain of a million, though all true sportsmen present deeply sympathized with our hero that he should be thus wrecked inside of port on account of an ordinary act of courtesy to a female. But Mr. Bosch preserved his withers as unrung as though he possessed the hide of a rhinoceros. Wondurable, sir, said he, addressing the judge, I humbly beg permission to claim this derby race and lodge an objection against my antagonist. On what grounds, was the naturally astonished rejoinder.

  On the grounds, deliberately replied Chunderbindaman, that he surreptitiously did pull his horse's head. Juggins was too dumbfounded to reply to the accusation, and several spectators came forward to testify that they had personally witnessed him curving his steed, and it being contrary to the lex non scripta of turf etiquette to pull at a horse's head when he is winning, Juggins was very ignominiously plucked by the jockeys club. The Duchess made the desperate attempt to argue that if Juggins was a pot, Mr. Bosch was a kettle of equally dark complexion, since he also had reigned up before attaining the goal. But Chunderbindaman was able to easily show that he had done so, not with any intention to forfeit his stakes, but merely to salute his betrothed, whereas Juggins had pulled to prevent his horse from achieving the conquest.

  So, to Mr. Bosch's inexpressible delight, the derby cup, full as an egg with gold and sovereigns, was awarded to him, and the notorious blue ribbon was pinned by the judge upon his proud and heaving bosom. But as he was reverting, highly elated to the sight of his beloved amidst the acclamations of the multitude, the disreputable Juggins had the audacity to pluck his elbow and demand the promise quid pro quo. For what service? inquired Chunderbindaman in amazement. Why did you not promise me the moiety of your fortune, honourable sir? was the reply. If I allowed you to be the winner?

  Mr. Bosch was of an exceptionally mild, just disposition, with such a piece of cheeky chicanery as this aroused his fiercest indignation and rendered him cross as two sticks. O contemptible trickster! he said in terrific tones, my promise, as thou knowest well, was on condition that I was first past the winning pole, whereas owing to thy perfidy I was only the bad second. Do not attempt to hunt with the hare and run with hounds. Depart to lower regions! And Juggins slinked into obscurity with fallen chops. Benevolent and forebearing readers, this unassuming tale is near its finesse. Owing to his brilliant success at the derby, Mr. Bosch was now rolling on cash, and as the prediction of the astrologer royale was fulfilled, there was no longer any objection to his union with the Princess Jones,

  with whom he accordingly contracted holy matrimony, and now lives in great splendour at Shepherd's Bush, since all his friends earnestly besought him that he was not to return to India. He therefore naturalised himself as a full-blooded British, and therefore adopted a coat of arms from the family herald, with a splendidly lofty crest, and the motto, Sans Puer et Sans Reproche. Not being funky myself, I do not reproach others with said failing. But what of the wicked Duchess? I have to record that, being unable to pay the Welsher her bet of a million pounds, she was solemnly pronounced a bankruptus, and incarcerated by a striking instance of the tit quartet of fate in the identical old Bailey cell to which she had consigned Chunderbindabung. And in her case the jailer's fair daughter, Miss Caroline, did not exhibit the same soft-heartedness.

  Mr. Bosch and his Princess Bride, being both of highly magnanimous idiosyncrasies, for some time visited their relentless foe in her captivity, carrying her fruit and flowers and sweets of inexpensive qualities, but were received in such a cold, standoffish style that they soon discontinued such thankless civilities. As for Milky Way, she is still hale and flourishing, though she has never since displayed the phenomenal speed of her first, and probably her last, derby race. She may often be seen in the vicinity of Shepherd's Bush, harnessed to a small basket chase, in which are Mr. and Mrs. Bosch and some of their blooming progenies. Here, with the public's kind permission, we will leave them.

  And although this trivial and unpretentious romance can claim no merit except its undeviating fidelity to nature, I shall venture to think that for sheer excitement and brilliancy of composition, etc., it will be found by all candid judges to compare rather favourably with more showy and meretricious fictions by overrated English novelists. End of a Bired from Bengal NB. I cannot conscientiously recommend the indulgent reader to proceed any further, for reasons which, should he do so, will be obvious. HBJ.

  End of chapter 14. Read by Don W. Jenkins, Rancho San Diego, California, shaggybark.blogspot.com

• 15 - The Parables of Piljosh

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  The Parables of Piljosh by F. Anstey. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Don W. Jenkins. The Parables of Piljosh. Freely rendered into English from the original

  stiptick with introduction and notes by H. B. Jaberjee, B.A. Introduction. I shall begin by begging that it may not be supposed, either that I am the author or even the translator of the appended fables.

  The plain truth of the matter is that I am far indeed from standing agog with amazement at their literary or other excellences, and inclined rather to award them the faint damnation of a very mediocre eulogy. But it so happens that the actual translator is the same

  young English friend who kindly furnished me with a few selected poetic extracts for my society novel, and has earnestly entreated me, as the quid pro quo, to compose an introduction and notes for his own effusion, alleging that it is a scenic one non, nowadays, for all first class

  classics to be issued with introduction, notes and appendix by some literary knob, otherwise they speedily become obsolete and stillborn. Therefore I readily consent to oblige him, although I am no a fait in the stiptick dialect, and cannot therefore be

  answerable for the accuracy of my friend's translation, which he admits himself is of a rather free description. Of the philosopher who composed these proverbs or fables little is known, even in his own country, except that, as all scholiasts are aware, he was born on the

  1st of April 1450, old style, and for some years filled the important and responsible post of Archimandric of Periprostekion. He probably met with a violent end. I shall not undertake to provide a note to every parable, but only in cases where I think that the

  parable is not quite as luminous as the nose on one's face and needs the services of an experienced interpreter. H. B. J. The butterfly visited so many flowers that she fell sick of a surfeit of nectar. She called it nervous

  breakdown. Instead of vainly lamenting over those we have lost, said the young cuckoo severely to the father and mother sparrow, it seems to me that you should be rejoicing that I am still spared to you.

  Note, a mere plagiaristic adaptation of the trite adage concerning the comparative values of birds in the hand and in the bush. H. B. J. I am old enough to be thy grandfather, the egg informed the chicken.

  In that case, replied the chicken, it is high time thou bestirts thyself. Not so, said the egg, since the longer I remain quiescent, the fitter I shall be for the career that is destined for me.

  Indeed, inquired the chicken, and what may that be? Politics answered the egg with importance, and the chicken pondered long over that saying. Note, I must confess to following the chicken's precedent without arriving at any solution, for

  logically an egg must be the junior of any chicken, and again, even for parabolical purposes, it is far-fetched to represent an egg as a potential member of parliament. On the whole, I am not entirely satisfied that my

  young friend is so proficient in acquaintance with cryptic as he has represented to me. H. B. J. There is only one thing that irriteth a woman more than the man who doth not understand her, and that

  is the man who doth. A certain artificer constructed a mechanical serpent which was so marvelously natural that it bit him in the back. Had I but another hour to live, he left the egg

  and the chicken, and the chicken was dead. I would have patented the invention. The woman was so determined to be independent of man that she voluntarily became the slave of a machine.

  Note, I do not understand the meaning of the fabulist here. H. B. J. She used to be so fresh, but she has gone off terribly since I first knew her, said the slug

  of the strawberry. Note, see my remark on the last parable. H. B. J. All that downright plagiarism, observed the ass when he heard the lion roar.

  A cheery laugh goes a long way in this world, remarked the hyena. But a bright smile goes further still, said the alligator, as he took him in. Note, if the honorable philosopher is censoring

  here merely the assumption of hilarity and not ordinary quiet facetiousness, I am entirely with him, but I rather regard him as a total man, and I am fanatically opposed to it in any form.

  H. B. J. I trust I have now made myself perfectly clear, observed the cuttlefish after discharging his ink. The cockney was assured that if he placed the

  seashell to his ear, he would hear the murmur of ocean, but all he caught distinctly was the melody of negro minstrels. It is some satisfaction to feel that we have both been sacrificed in a thoroughly deserving cause,

  and I am not a fool to believe that the article has been put in place recently to the three-penny bit as they met in the offertory bag. Note, this must be some local illusion, for I do not know what sort of receptacle an offertory

  bag may be, or why such articles should be inserted therein. H. B. J. Mistrust the bridegroom who appearth at his wedding with sticking plaster on his chin, or

  without sticking plaster, etc. Note, then I will humbly say that it must be a peculiarly elastic tongue, but in either form the proverb is meaningless. H. B. J.

  What, my original dead? cried the statue. Then I have lost all chance of ever becoming celebrated. Note, this is an obvious mistranslation since a

  statue is only erected when the original is already celebrated. H. B. J. What is your favourite perfume? they asked the hog, and he answered, pigwash.

  How vulgar, exclaimed the stoat, mine is patchouli. But the fox said that in his opinion the less scent one used, the better. Note, this merely records the well-known physiological fact that some persons are born

  without the olfactory scents. Emperor Vespasian was accustomed to declare erroneously that Pecunia non olet. H. B. J. I wonder how they allow such a cruel contrivance

  as that catch-em-alive-o paper, said the spider tearfully as she sat in her web. Note, from this we learn that there may be a soft spot in the most unpromising quarters. Even Alexander the Great, who spent the blood of

  his troops like pocket money, is recorded to have wept at a review on suddenly reflecting that all his soldiers would probably be deceased in a hundred years. It is barely possible that Piljosh may have been

  a spectator of this incident. H. B. J. A certain pheasant was pluming herself upon having become a member of the anti-sporting league. Softly, friend, said a wily old cock,

  for should this league of thine succeed in its object, every man's hand would be against us both by day and night, whereas at present our lives are protected all night by vigilant keepers and spared all day by our owner and his guests

  who are incapable of shooting for nuts. Note, this is a glaring non sequitur and fallacy. I myself have never shot for nuts, but it does not necessarily follow that any pheasant would remain intact after I discharged my rifle barrel.

  H. B. J. It is not what we look that signifyeth, said the scorpion virtuously. It is what we are. Note, true enough, but the morrow would have been

  improved by attributing the saying to some insect of more innocuous character than a scorpion. Perhaps this is so in the original sceptic, for as I have said, I cannot repose implicit faith in my young friend's version, H. B. J.

  I have composed the most pathetic poem in the world, declared the poet. How canst thou be sure of that, he was asked? Because, he replied, I recited it to the crocodile and she could not refrain from shedding tears.

  It is gratifying to find one self-appreciated at last, said the cabbage when the cigar merchant labelled him as a cabana. Do not talk to me about cactus, said the ostrich contemptuously to the camel.

  Incipid stuff, I call it. No, for real flavour and delicacy give me a pair of Sheffield scissors. The accommodation might be more luxurious, it's true, remarked the philosophic mouse when he found himself

  in the trap, but after all, it's not as if I was going to stay here long. People tell me he can shine when he chooses, said the extinguisher of the candle. All I know is he's positively dull whenever he's with me.

  There was once a musical box which played but one tune to which its owner was never weary of listening. But after a time he desired a novelty and could not rest until he had exchanged the barrel for another. However, he sickened of the second tune sooner than

  of the first, and so he exchanged it for a third, which he liked not at all. Accordingly he commanded the box should return to the first tune of all, and lo, this had become an abomination unto his ears, nor could he conceive

  how he had ever been able to endure it. So the musical box was laid upon the shelf, and the owner procured for himself a cheap mouth organ, which could play any air that was suggested to it, and thus became an established favourite.

  Note, this is apparently designed to illustrate the musical character. H.B.J. Do come in, snapped the severed shark's head to the ship's cat.

  As you perceive, I am carrying on business as usual during the alterations. The bull bull had no sooner finished her song than the bullfrog began to make profuse apologies for having left his music at home.

  To a butterscotch machine, the penny and the tin disc are alike. Note, surely not if an official is looking on. H.B.J. My dears, said the converted cannibal reverently to

  his wife and family as they sat down to their baked missionary, do not let us omit to ask a blessing. There is but one singer whom it is futile to encore, and that is a dying swan. I am doing a series of notable nests for Sylvan

  society, said the insinuating serpent on finding the ring dove at home, and I should so much like to include you. You are very kind, said the ring dove in a flutter, but I can assure you that there is no more in my

  poor little eggs than in any other birds. That may be, replied the serpent, but I must live somehow. No outsiders there, only just their own particular set, said the cock sparrow when he came home after

  having been to tea with the birds of paradise. The elephant was dying of starvation, and a kind hearted person presented him with an acidulated drop. Note, it is well my incredible that any

  philosopher should be so ignorant of natural history as to imagine that any elephant would accept an acid drop, even if it was on its last legs for want of nutrition. The conclusion of this anecdote would seem to be

  either lost or unfit for publication. H.B.J. The lioness was a famous violinist who serenaded his mistress every evening performing the most divine melodies upon his instrument, but all the

  while she was straining her ears to listen to a piano organ round the corner which was playing Good-bye Dolly Grey. The performing lioness kisses her trainer on the mouth, but only in public.

  The candle complained bitterly of the scorched moths in her vicinity. I have taken such a fancy to thee, said the hop genially to the field mouse, that I am going to put thee into a really good thing.

  And he opened his beak. There are persons who have no sense of the fitness of things, like the grasshopper who insisted on putting the snail up for the skipping club. The cat scratched the dog's nose out of sheer

  indifference. The lioness was a beautiful girl, but she had no time to explain. After all, it is pleasant to be at home again, said the eagle's feathers on the shaft that pierced him,

  but the eagle's reply is not recorded. Note, poet Byron also mentions this incident, H.B.J. A certain painter set himself to depict a lovely landscape. See, he cried as he exhibited his canvas to a

  man who was a painter. Since thou desirest to know, was the reply, thou seemest to me to have portrayed nothing but a manure heap. Am I to blame, exclaimed the indignant painter, if

  a manure heap chants to be immediately in front of me? Before a man marryeth a woman, he delighteth to describe unto her all his doings, even the most unimportant.

  The painting is very, very shallow. I have never experienced any such compunctiousness in my own wives, H.B.J. I shouldn't have minded so much, said the bee, with some bitterness just before breathing his last in

  the honey pot. Only it happens to be my own make. Is the white rabbit beautiful? someone inquired of the albino rat. She may be passable enough, replied the rat, but

  when the ass was asked about his cousin the zebra, he said, Do not speak about him, for he has disgraced us all. Never before has there been any eccentricity in our family.

  The full-blown sausage professeth to have forgotten the days of his puppyhood. Will you allow me to pass, said the courteous garden roller to the snail? Had anyone met the red herring in the sea and for

  him to be pursued by hounds across a difficult country, the herring would have accounted him but a vain babbler. Yet so it fell out. I shrewdly suspect that my young friend has made

  the rather natural mistake of substituting the word red herring for flying fish. It is not absolutely incredible that one of the latter departments should fly inland to be chased by dogs, but even Piljosh should be aware that no

  bird will be able to fly by his own will. Let me tell you a story, H.B.J. An officious busybody perceiving a phoenix, well alight, promptly extinguished her by means of a convenient watering pot.

  Had you refrained from this uncalled for interference, said the justly irate bird, I should by this time be rising gloriously from my ashes instead of presenting the ridiculous appearance of a partially roasted fowl.

  reader that the phoenix is the notorious symbol for a fire insurance. H. V. J. Alas! sighed the learned pig, while expiring from inflammation of the brain, brought on by a laborious endeavor to ascertain the sum of two and two. Why, why was I cursed with intellect? I shall know better another time, gasped the fish as he lay in the landing net. A certain merchant sold a child a sharp sword. Thou

  hast done wrong in this, remonstrated a sage, since the child will assuredly wound either himself or some other. I shall not be responsible, cried the merchant, for in selling the sword I did recommend the child to protect the point with a cork. A certain grain of millet fell out of a sack in which it was being carried into the city, and was soon trampled in the dust. I am lost, cried the

  Yet I do not repine so much for myself as for those countless multitudes who, deprived of me, are now doomed to perish miserably of starvation. I have given up dancing, said the tongs, for they no longer dance with the elegance and grace that were universal in my young days. But for the mercy of Providence, said the fox piously to the goose whom he found in a trap that had

  been set for himself, our respective situations might now be reversed. She really sang quite nicely, remarked the cuckoo, after she had been to hear the nightingale one evening, but it's a pity her range is so sadly limited. The mendicant insisted on making his will. But what hast thou to leave when thou diest, cried the scribe? As much as the richest, he replied, for when I die I

  leave the entire world. Note, this is, if not incorrectly translated, a grotesque and puerile allegation. The various Tyro is aware that when a millionaire hops the twig of his existence, he leaves more behind than a mere mendicant. H. B. J. Forgive me, said the toad to the swallow, but although you may not be aware of it, totally false pretenses. Am I, said the swallow meekly? I'm so sorry, do you mind

  showing me how you do it? I don't fly myself, said the toad with a narrow superiority. I've other things to do, but I have thoroughly mastered the theory of the art. Then teach me the theory, said the swallow. Willingly, said the toad, my fee to you will be two worms a lesson. I can't bear to think that no one will weep for me when I am gone, said the sentimental fly as he flew into the eye

  of a moneylender. Note, C. F. Poet Byron. Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming and look brighter when we come. H. B. J. A certain cockatrice, feeling sociably inclined, entered a mother's meeting, bent upon making himself agreeable, but was greatly mortified to find himself but coldly received. Women are so particular about trifles, he reflected bitterly. I

  know I said good afternoon with my mouth full, but as I explained I had just been lunching at the infant school. I want to be useful, said the silkworm as she sat down and set a sock for a decayed centipede. A traveler demanded hospitality from fourteen curds who were occupying one small tent. Enter freely, said the curds, but we must warn thee that thou wilt find the atmosphere exceeding the

  unpleasant, for by some inadvertence we have greased our boots from a jar of athar of roses. Note, once more I do not entirely fathom the fabulous' meaning, unless it is that such a valuable cosmetic as athar of roses may become so deteriorated as to offend even the nostril organ of a curd. H. B. J. A certain basilisk, having attained great success in petrifying all who came under

  his personal observation, there was a scheme set afoot to present him some token of popular esteem and regard. If we give him anything, said the fox, who was consulted as to the form of the proposed testimonial, I would suggest that it should take the shape of a pair of smoked spectacles. Note, the satire here, at least, is obvious enough. Smoked spectacles are a very inexpensive gift.

  H. B. J. How truly the poet sang that we may rise on stepping stones of our dead selves to hire things, remarked the chicken's merry thought when it found itself apotheosized into a pen wiper. Note, a young lady that shall be nameless once presented me with a very similar pen wipe which represented a Church of England ecclesiastical surplus and a mortar cap. H. B. J.

  I shall not have perished in vain, gasped an altruistic cockroach, immediately before expiring from an overdose of insect powder, for after this fatality the owners of the house will doubtless be more careful how they leave such stuff Note, British cockroaches, however, resemble Emperor Mithradates in being totally impervious to beetle poison. The sheep was so exceedingly tough and old

  that the wolf had thoughts of becoming a vegetarian. Note, when we see some person attaining centenarian longevity we are foolishly inclined to fancy that by adopting their diet we also are to become Methuselahms. H. B. J. A certain ant that had lost its all owing to a sudden collapse of the bank in which its savings were invested applied to a grasshopper for a small temporary

  advance. I am sorry dear boy, chirpily replied the grasshopper, that although I am playing to big business every evening I have not put by a single grain. However, I will get up a matinee for your benefit. This he did with such success that next winter the ant was once more sufficiently prosperous to discharge his obligation by offering the grasshopper a letter to the charity organization

  society. Note, the application of this is that a kind action is never really thrown away. H. B. J. I never feel quite myself till I've had a good bath said the bird whom an elderly lady had purchased from a street boy as a goldfinch. And behold, when the bird came out of its saucer of water it was a sparrow. Note, like many philosophers, P. L. Josh would seem to have had no great liking for ablutions,

  but water which could transform a goldfinch into a sparrow must previously have been enchanted by some magician, so that our parabola's shaft misses fire in this instance, as indeed in many others. Possibly, however, his translator has once more proved a traitor. H. B. J. Pride not yourself upon your luster and symmetry, said the jet earring austerely to the pearl, for after all you owe your beauty to nothing

  but the morbid secretions of a diseased oyster. I am sorry to spoil your moral, retorted the pearl with much suavity, but like yourself I happen to be artificial. Note, inhabitants of glassy mansions should not indulge in lapidation. H. B. J. Come, said the peacock's feather proudly to the fly-flapper and the tin squeaker, as the final illumination flickered out and they lay in the gutter together,

  limp and exhausted with their exertions and tickling and generally exasperating, inoffensive strangers. They may say what they please, but at least we have shown them that a spirit of patriotism is not yet extinct. Note, this must refer to some cryptic customs prevalent in the parabola's time, but I do not clearly apprehend what connection either tickling, fly-flapping or squeaking can have with patriotism. H. B. J.

  Last words. Here conclude the parables of Pill Josh, together with the present volume. That the former can possibly obtain honourable mention when compared with the apologues of Plato, Aesop, Cordirius, Nepos or even Confucius, I cannot for a moment anticipate. And none can be more sensible than my humble self, how very poor a figure they cut in proximity to the production of my own pen. However, indulgent critics will please not saddle

  my unoffending head with the responsibility, the fact being that I was vehemently advised that, without some meretricious padding of this sort, my romance would not be of sufficient robustness to produce a boom. But should a byard from Bengal unfortunately fail to render the Thames combustible, I should rather attribute the cause to its having been unwisely diluted with such milk and watery material as the parables of Pill Josh. So, leaving the decision to the

  impartial and unanimous verdict of popular approval, I subscribe myself, the reader's very obsequious and palpitating servant, Henry Bung Show Jabbergy B.A. etc., etc., etc. End of A Byard from Bengal, read by Don W. Jenkins, Rancho San Diego, California, shaggybark.blogspot.com