Dear CHARLIE,--'Ow are yer, my pippin? 'Ere's 'oliday season come round,
And I'm off on the galoot somewheres, and that pooty soon, you be bound;
But afore I make tracks for dear Parry, or slope for the Scheldt or the
Rhine,
My 'art turns to turmuts and you, and I feel I _must_ drop yer a line.

_You_ gave me a invite this season, I know, my dear boy. Well, yer see
It's _this_ way. The green tooral-looral's all right, but it 'ardly suits
Me!
When you're well in the swim, my dear CHARLIE, along o' the reglar
_eleet_,
You must do as they do, for a swell, like a Bobby, must stick to his
beat.

[Illustration: 'ARRY ON THE BOULEVARDS.]

It's expected, old man, it's expected. Jest fancy me slinging my 'ook
For old Turmutshire, going out nuttin', or bobbing for fish in a brook!
Not _der wriggle_, dear boy, I assure you. Could stars of Mayfair be
content
To round upon Rome or the Riggi, and smug up in Surrey or Kent?

No fear! Cherry orchards is pooty, and 'ops 'as admirers, no doubt;
But it's only when sport is afoot as the country's worth fussin' about.
Your toff likes the turmuts or stubbles when poultry is there to be shot.
But corn-fields and cabbage-beds, CHARLIE? Way oh! that's all
middle-class rot.

There wos a time, CHARLIE, I own it, when Richmond 'ud do me to rights.
And a fortnight at Margit meant yum-yum to look for and dream on o'