Summary

Various Punch, or the London Charivari…

You may object that you never, as a matter of fact, did this execution, never having even shot at all with No. 8. Tush! you are puling. If you are going to let a conscientious accuracy stand in your way like this, you had better become dumb when sporting talk is flying about. Of course you must not exaggerate too much. Only bumptious fools do that, and they are called liars for their pains. But a little exaggeration, just a soupçon of romance, does no one any harm, while it relieves the prosaic dullness of the ordinary anecdote.
Source: Gutenberg

Various Punch, or the London Charivari…

If a good shot cannot kill grouse with No. 6, how on earth is a merely average shot to do the trick? But, in these matters, the conversationalist finds his opportunity. Only they must not be pushed too far. There was once a party of genial, light-hearted friends, who went out shooting. Early in the day, slight differences of opinion made themselves observed with reference to the size of shot. Lunch found them still more or less good-tempered, but each obstinately determined not to give way even by a fraction on the point under discussion.
Source: Gutenberg

Various Punch, or the London Charivari…

However, with regard to the great race next week, I am fortunately able to set aside all "information received," because I have had a dream!—not one of the ordinary lobster-salad kind of racing-dreams one reads about— (naturally I should not have an inferior kind, having ordered in a stock of the "best selected," one to be taken every night at bed-time) —in which the dreamer only sees one horse—but a most complicated affair, from which it will be an easy task for anyone skilled in dream-lore to extract the winner!
Source: Gutenberg

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