FullReads

From the London Times, July 1st.

Major-General Sir Cap a Pie has been ordered for his health to the south coast, and leaves to-day, with family and suite, for Giant Blunderbore’s Hotel, Giants’ Bay.

From the Lincoln Daily Gossip, June 30th.

After a season of unusual fatigue we are happy to be able to announce that our eloquent townsman, the Reverend Simon Cellarer, has at last decided to give himself a long-earned rest, and has left this day (Tuesday) for Cornwall, where he will spend a few weeks in seclusion at Giants’ Bay. The reverend gentleman has, we are glad to say, taken his tricycle with him.

From the Excursionist’s Guide.

Advertisement.–Cheap Daily Excursions. Special facilities. Return tickets at the price of single. Magnificent air. Sea bathing. Fine hotels–Blunderbore, Cormoran and Galligantus. Hundreds of visitors daily.

From the Scampingtonian (the Holiday Number of the Scampington School Magazine).

The following from a Pie minor will be read with interest by our readers:–

“Blunderbore’s, Giants’ Bay.

“Dear Chappies,–I don’t think much of Cornwall. The gingerbeer’s beastly bad, and there’s not a single chap here can play tennis. The bathing’s only so so, and not a boat to be had except an old barge, which Blunderbore uses as a skiff. He’s a regular rum Johnny, old Blunderbore; stands about 18 feet in his stockings, 108 inches round the chest, and got a voice to match. He’s the boss of this place, and tries to be civil, people say. There’s a jolly mixed lot at this hotel. A French chap who doesn’t know his own language, at least he pretended not to when I talked to him and said, `Il regarde comme un mouille jour.’ Any ass would know what that meant; you would yourselves. Then there’s a lot of old fogies who belong to a society or something, and go and measure, old Blunderbore round the chest and biceps, and photograph him, and all sorts of tomfoolery. How’d they like it themselves? They say they’re working in the interests of science. I’d like to catch any one working in the interests of science on my biceps! Rather a rum go yesterday. The governor and mater were asked to an `At Home’ at Blunderbore’s private house. I was asked too, but backed out. They went in full toggery, and haven’t turned up again at the hotel. I asked Blunderbore, and he said he saw the last of them about eleven last night, and was very sorry when their visit came to an end. I suppose they’ve gone and lost themselves on the way home. I shall have to go and look for them. Blunderbore wants me to go to his next party, but I shall get out of it if I can. Ta, ta, chappies. It’s jolly slow here. The only lively chap is a parson from Lincoln with a tricycle; also a medical fellow just turned up called Jack, a sort of dark horse, who doesn’t talk to anybody.

“Yours ever,–

“Hugh a Pie.

“`P.S.–The fellow called Jack is a swell with the boxing-gloves. He doubled me up in two rounds, and it’s not everybody could do that.'”

From the West Anglian Anthropomorphist, July 10th. [A communication from the learned President.]

I anticipate the more detailed account of this singular neighbourhood, which I hope to make when I address you at the meeting on September 1st, by a few preliminary notes on some most extraordinary anthropological discoveries which certain members of the society have recently made among the inhabitants of Giants’ Bay. At a very early period of the world’s history, midway, it is conjectured, between the glacial and basaltic epochs–that is to say, about 100,000 years before the creation of the world–there appears to have prevailed an unusual divergence in the normal stature of the mammal bipeds in the county of Cornwall.