"Thick and fast they come at last,And more, and more, and more."
"Thick and fast they come at last,And more, and more, and more."
"Thick and fast they come at last,
And more, and more, and more."
But do not let this tempt you into firing too quick. Pick your bird and kill it, though I grant you this is not an easy thing to do. Many men seem quite to lose their head at a hot corner. They fire almost at random, though, in the case of a few birds coming, they will scarcely miss a shot.
By this time it is growing dusk. The December afternoon is closing in. There is a mist rising from the river, the air feels damp and chill, and your thoughts turn to a bright fire, a tea-gown, and those delicious two hours before dinner.
To my mind, grouse-shooting is the cream of sport. To begin with, Scotland itself has a charm which no other country possesses. Then it is such nice clean walking! However much you may curtail your skirt,mudwill stick to it, but on the heather there is nothing to handicap you—you are almost on a level with MAN!
From the moment you leave the lodge on a shooting morning, your pleasure begins. The dogs and keepers have preceded you. A couple of gillies are waiting with the ponies. You mount, and wend your way over the hill road, ruminating as you go, on the possible bag, and taking in, almost unconsciously, the bewitching feast that nature with such a bountiful hand has spread before you.
On either side a wide expanse of moorland, one mass of bloom, broken here and there by a burnt patch or some grey lichen-covered boulders. The ground gently slopes on the right towards a few scrubby alders or birches, with one or two rowan trees, the fringe of green bracken denoting the little burn which to-day trickles placidly along, but in a spate becomes a roaring torrent of brown water and white foam. Beyond is a wide stretch of purple heather, then a strip of yellow and crimson bents, dotted with the white cotton-flower. The broken, undulating ground, with its little knolls and hollows, tells of nice covert for the grouse when the mid-day sun is high, and the birds are, as an old keeper used to say, "lying deid in the heather."
Further away rise the hills in their stately grandeur, green, and olive, and grey, and purple; how the light changes on them! One behind the other they lie in massive splendour, and, more distant still, the faint blue outline of some giant overtops the rest, with here and there a rugged peak standing out against the sky. And, pervading all, that wonderful, exhilarating, intoxicating air!
Rounding a bend in the road, you come across three or four hill-sheep, standing in the shade of the overhanging bank. Startled, they lift their heads and gaze at you, then rush away, bounding over the stones and heather with an agility very unlike the "woolly waddle" of our fat Leicesters.
Anon, in the distance, you see Donald and the dogs on the look-out for you, the dogs clustered round the keeper, a most picturesque group.
When you reach them and dismount, a brace of setters are uncoupled and boisterously tear around, till peremptorily called to order. You take your guns, etc., the dogs are told to "hold up," and the sport begins.
In a few moments "Rake" pulls up short, and stands like a rock; "Ruby" backs him. You advance slowly, always, when possible, at the side of the dog standing, and pause for your companion to come up. Rake moves forward, a step at a time, his lip twitching and his eyes eager with excitement; another second and the birds get up. Seven of them. (Here let me give the beginner a hint. Take the birds nearest you and furthest from your companion, never shoot across him, don't change your bird, and don't fire too soon.) You re-load and walk up to where they rose, there will probably be a bird left. Up he gets, right under your feet. You let him go a proper distance, then neatly drop him in the heather.
This kind of thing is repeated again and again, varied by an odd "bluehare," or a twisting snipe. The dogs quarter their ground beautifully, it is a pleasure to see them work, for grouse are plentiful, the shooting good, and they are encouraged to do their best. Perhaps there may be a bit of swamp surrounded by rushes in which an occasional duck is to be found. The dogs are taken up, and the guns creep cautiously forward, taking care to keep out of sight till within shot. You then show yourselves simultaneously on the right and left, when the birds will generally spring. Remember to aimabovea duck—because it is always rising.
Later on in the season grouse get wilder, and the shooting consequently more amusing. The old cocks grow very wary, but sometimes, coming round the brow of a hill, you light suddenly on a grand old fellow, who, with a "Bak-a-bak-bak," rises right up into the air, turns, and goes off down-wind forty miles an hour. Catch him under the wing just on the turn—a lovely shot. If you miss him he won't give you another chance that day!
By way of variety you are sometimes bidden to assist at a neighbouring "drive" for black game and roe. On one occasion we were asked to join a party for this purpose. We set off with an army of guns and beaters, some of the former decidedly inexperienced ones. It is, of course, essential in roe-driving, that you should, when in position, keep absolutely still. It was known that two bucks with exceptionally fine heads frequented the wood, and our host was anxious to secure them. My husband was placed in a very likely place, and there, in spite of midges and flies galore, he possessed his soul in patience. Suddenly he thought he heard a footstep; the sound was repeated, and, cautiously moving to discover what it might portend, he saw the gun stationed next him calmly patrolling up and down, flicking away the midges with his white handkerchief! My husband didn't get that buck.
After luncheon, our party was reinforced by the butler and the French cook. Both arrived with guns, which they carried "at the trail," at full cock over the roughest ground. The chef was a long, lean, lank, cadaverous man looking as if he wanted one of his own skewers run down him. He was dressed in shiny black clothes and woreenormousslippers. Comfortable enough, no doubt, on thetrottoirof his "beloved Paris," but scarcely suitable for the hill! So he seemed to find, for he shortly retired, when we felt considerably happier. Another time, the best wood, thebonne bouche, was carefully beaten through while we were discussing arecherchéchampagne luncheon. Just as we finished, the shouts, cries, and discordant noises which denote the approach of beaters, were heard, and shortly after, one of the keepers came up and informed us that the whole wood had been gone through and that seven roe, to say nothing of a red deer had been seen! Evidently "someone had blundered." I do not myself think there is much sport in roe-driving. To begin with they are such pretty graceful animals, one cannot kill them without remorse. Also it requires very little skill to put a charge of shot into them even at a gallop.
Nor is a grey-hen a difficult bird to kill. Heavy and slow—what Mr Jorrocks calls "a henterpriseless brute"—it flops along through the birch trees (though, when driven, and coming from some distance it acquires much greater speed), looking more like a barn-door fowl than a game bird; but the Sultan of the tribe is quite a different thing. Wild, wary and watchful, he is ever on thequi vive. When you do get a shot at him he is travelling by express, and having, most probably, been put up some distance off, he has considerable "way" on. You see his white feathers gleam in the sun, and the curl of his tail against the sky. Shoot well ahead of him. Ah! great is the satisfaction of hearing the dull thud as he falls, and of seeing him bounce up with the force of the contact with mother-earth. Truly, an old black-cock is a grand bird! His glossy blue-black plumage, white under-wings and tail, and red eye make such a pleasing contrast.
I remember once, when grouse-driving towards the end of the day, the beaters brought up a small birch wood which stood near the last row of butts. There were two or three ladies with us. One of them, a most bewitching and lovely young woman, accompanied a gallant soldier into his butt, to mark his prowess. As luck would have it, nine old black-cock flew over that brave colonel's butt, but, strange to say,fourwent away without a shot, and not one of the nine remained as witnesses of his skill! Now, let me point out, had that said charming girl beenshooting, she would have been stationed in a butt by herself, and, judging by that soldier's usual performance, at least five of those old black-cock would have bitten the dust that day! And "the moral of that is"—give a graceful girl a gun!
The hill ponies are wonderfully sagacious animals. When they have been once or twice over a road, they will never mistake their way. Once, when staying in Sutherlandshire, two of us started at 10·15 a.m. We rode about four miles, before beginning to shoot, over a very bad bit of country. There were two burns to ford, some curious kind of grips to jump, and several boggy places to circumnavigate.
We shot away from home till about 6·30, then met the ponies and started on our ride home—about nine miles. We neither of us knew the way, beyond having a vague idea as to the direction in which the lodge lay. The first part was easy enough, a narrow sheep-walk guided us, but at length that failed, and there was nothing for it but to trust to the ponies. We could only go at a foot's-pace. The September evening fast closed in, and it came on to drizzle, until, for the last two miles, we could scarcely see two yards before us, and yet those ponies brought us home—over the two fords, avoided the treacherous grips and the boggy places, never putting a foot wrong the whole way! It was long past nine when the lights of the lodge hove in sight. Truly that night's dinner was a "thing of beauty" and bed seemed a "joy for ever!"
Two days later found me keen as mustard to scale the heights of Ben Hope for ptarmigan. It was almost the only game bird, except capercailzie, I had never shot, and I was extremely anxious to seize an opportunity of doing so. Five guns set out. We rode a considerable distance, until the ground became too soft for ponies to travel. Arrived at the foot of the hill I gazed in dismay at its steep, stony height, and felt like the child in the allegory who turns back at its first difficulty! But pluck and ambition prevailed, and I struggled gamely up, though, hot and breathless, I was forced to pause more than once ere we got even halfway. We had agreed that, on no account, were we to fire at anything but ptarmigan. When we had ascended about 1300 feet a covey of grouse got up. One of the sportsmen, nay, the very one who had been foremost in suggesting that ptarmigan only should be our prey, turned round, and feebly let fly both barrels, wounding one wretched bird which disappeared into the depths below, never to be seen again! As the report reverberated through the hill, the whole place above us seemed to be alive with the cackling of ptarmigan, and, in a moment, without any exaggeration at least twenty brace were on the wing at once, making their way round the shoulder, over the Green Corrie to the highest part of Ben Hope. I think the spectre of that grouse must haunt that sportsman yet!
Of course there were a few odd birds left, and, before we gained the top, we had each picked up one or two, though, through another contretemps, I missed my best chance. I had unwillingly, over a very steep and rocky bit of ground, given up my gun to the keeper. The moment after I had done so, two ptarmigan got up to my left, offering a lovely cross shot, and, before I could seize the gun, they fell, a very pretty double shot, to our host on my right. When we reached the summit, we found ourselves enveloped in a thick fog, although down below it was a brilliant hot day; so dense was it, that, notwithstanding we were walking in line, some of us got separated, and it must have been almost an hour before we joined forces again. Altogether it was a hard day's work, but, having attained my object, I was sublimely indifferent to everything else.
Driving is certainly the form of shooting that requires the most skill, whether it be grouse or partridge, and is most fascinating when you can hit your birds! Grouse-driving appears to me the easier of the two; partly because they come straight, and partly because you can see them much further off, also they are rather bigger, though they may, perhaps, come the quicker of the two. Nothing but experience will show you how soon you can fire at a driven grouse coming towards you. Some people get on to their birds much quicker than others. I have heard it said that as soon as you can distinguish the plumage of the bird, he is within shot. Aim a little above him if he is coming towards you—a long way ahead if he is crossing.
If you shoot with two guns, I assume that you have practised "giving and taking" with a loader. Otherwise there will be a fine clashing of barrels and possibly an unintentional explosion. The cap and jacket for driving must be of some neutral tint, any white showing is liable to turn the birds. Of course you must be most careful never to fire a side shot within range of the next butt. A beginner is more apt to do this, from being naturally a slow shot at first.
The same rules hold good for partridge-driving, only there you usually stand behind a high hedge, consequently you cannot see the birds approaching. You hear "Ma-a-rk" in the distance, and the next moment—whish! They are over, scattering at the sight of you to right or left; take one as he comes over you, and you may get another going away from you—or a side shot—provided there is no gun lower down whom you run the risk of peppering.
Walking up partridges in turnips affords the same kind of shooting as grouse over dogs; not bad fun when they are plentiful, but hardish work for petticoats! If a hare gets up and bounds away, the moving turnip-tops will be your only guide to her whereabouts, aim rather low, or the chances are you fire over her back. A curious incident once happened when we were partridge shooting. Two hares were put up, and running from opposite directions up the same row they "collided," and with such violence that one broke its neck and the other was so stunned that it was picked up by a beater! The Irishman might with truth have said—"Man, they jostle one anoither." And this in spite of the Ground Game Act!
You will occasionally come across snipe in turnips. They are horrid little zig-zagging wretches! If you wait till their first gyrations are over, they do, for a second, fly straight (for them), and even a 20-bore can sometimes lay them low.
I once shot a quail. I mistook it for a "cheeper" minus a tail, and gazed placidly at its retreating form, murmuring to myself, "too small," when I was electrified by a yell—"Shoot, shoot!" Being trained to habits of obedience, I promptly did as I was told, and brought the "little flutterer" down. A quail in a turnip field! I should as soon have expected to meet one of the children of Israel.
On a winter afternoon,faute-de-mieux, shooting wood-pigeons coming in to roost, is a pastime not to be despised, but it is very cold work. A windy evening is the best; luckily pigeons always fly in against the wind, so you can get on the leeside of the plantation and shoot them coming in, or you can ensconce yourself under the shelter of some fir-boughs near the trees in which they are accustomed to roost. A pigeon takes a lot of killing, he possesses so many feathers; then he has an eye like a hawk, and can turn with incredible speed. If there are several guns in different woods you may easily get 100 in an hour or two, and often many more.
Of the grandest sport of all I grieve to say I can write nothing. I have never had the chance of a shot at a stag. It is not possible to describe a stalk by hearsay only; besides, in my remarks hitherto, I have recorded nothing which has not come within my own actual experience.
I can, however, easily imagine the intense pleasure of being well brought up to within, perhaps, 100 yards of a good stag, the excitement of having the rifle thrust into your hands with a whispered "Tak' time," the cautious raising of the weapon to a rest, the anxious moment as you take your sight and gently press the trigger, and the supreme delight of hearing the "thud" of the bullet as it strikes, and as the smoke clears off, of seeing him stagger a few paces and fall "never toriseagain." I forbear to draw the reverse side of the picture.
Of course, in many forests, stalking is quite feasible for ladies, though not within reach of all. I confess I envy those fortunate individuals who have, more than once, compelled some "antlered monarch of the glen" to bow his lofty head and lower his colours at their bidding!
With regard to dress—I believe, for those who can endure the feel, wearing all wool is a great safeguard against rheumatism, chills, and all evils of that ilk. But, on this subject, every woman will of course please herself. I will therefore merely give an outline of my own get-up. A short plain skirt of Harris tweed, with just enough width to allow of striding or jumping, a half tight-fitting jacket to match, with turn-up collar and strap like a cover-coat, pockets big enough to get the hands in and out easily, a flannel shirt and leather belt, or, for smarter occasions, a stiff shirt and waistcoat. Knickerbockers of thin dark tweed, high laced boots with nails, or brown leather gaiters and shoes. If a petticoat is worn,silkis the best material for walking in. I have neither mackintosh nor leather on my dress, I dislike the feel of both. For wet weather, a waterproof cape, with straps over the shoulders so that it can be thrown back, if required, in the act of shooting, is very convenient.
But there is really only one essential in a shooting costume. Itmustbe loose enough to give the armsperfect freedomineverydirection—without this, it is impossible to shoot well or quickly.
One last hint. Never go on shooting when you are tired. It will only cause you disappointment, and others vexation of spirit, for you will assuredly shoot under everything. Bird after bird will go away wounded, time after time your mentor (or tormentor) will cry "low and behind, low and behind," until, in angry despair, you long to fling the empty cartridge at his head. Take my advice "give it up, and go home!"
That the above notes may not be free from numerous sins of omission and commission, I am well aware. It would be great presumption on my part to suppose that my feeble pen could do what many men have failed to accomplish. But if any hints I have given prove of service to beginners and encourage them to persevere (even though at present, like the old woman's false teeth "they misses as often as they hits"), my pleasant task will not have been in vain.
Mildred Boynton.
A KANGAROO HUNT.
By Mrs Jenkins.
It has been said "An Englishman is never happy unless he is killing something," and nowadays, at any rate, his happiness seems increased if members of the weaker sex share this propensity with him; and so a short account of a kangaroo hunt may not be inappropriate in a book about women's sports.
This is an exclusively Australian pastime, and has peculiar incidents of its own from the start to the finish. We do not see pink coats and heavy hunters, the bay of the hounds does not break on our ear, there are no hedges to leap, nor brooks, followed by a flounder through a ploughed field; we do not come home in a cold drizzle at the end of a delightful day, and sit near the fireside, wondering whether there will be a frost before morning, and whether the mare's legs will last this season. No, our hunting is done under a bright sun and balmy breezes, and, though we miss the prettiness and order which accompany a meet in the "auld countree," still, there is a rugged beauty about our surroundings. The horses are well-bred, though many of them not well groomed; the riders are graceful and plucky, and thetout ensemblemakes a fair picture to the lover of horseflesh and sport.
Well, friends have come together, the kangaroo hounds (they are a cross between the deerhound and greyhound,) are let loose and gambol round the horses, letting out short barks of satisfaction as the riders mount. Off we go. The country is hilly and thickly-wooded, logs lie in all directions, but our horses, bred in the district, pick their way, and go at a smart canter in and out of trees, and jump the logs as they come to them.
A low Hist! from the leader of the chase—he is the owner of the station—mounted on a thorough-bred bay, the hounds stand a second with pricked up ears, and their heads high in the air, for they run by sight; then off they go, and off we go after them. The kangaroos, six in number, led by a big "old man," spring along at an amazing pace, crash goes the brushwood, here and there a hound rolls over, making a miss at a log, but, in a second, he is up again, straining every nerve of his graceful body to reach his companions. We are nearing a wire fence; will the kangaroos be caught before we come to it? If not, some pretty riding will be seen, and British pluck will be needed to carry horse and rider over a five-feet fence, topped with barbed wire. However, our courage is not to be tested this time; the fleetest hound has the "old man" by the throat, the rest of the pack come up, and in a few moments all is over. A boy skins the victim and the tail is cut off, later on to make soup.
Now we have a consultation as to which way we shall go. It is getting near luncheon time and our host wants us to camp on a pretty bend of the river, so we take our course in that direction, spreading over a good space, and all keeping a good look-out.
We are ascending a mountain, the way is stony, and, as we go along, the scenery continually varies. Hill after hill rises before us, separated by deep gorges, all thickly timbered and abounding in ferns and flowering shrubs. The magpies warble and the thrush whistles its piping note, interrupted now and then by the shrill laugh of the jackass. But some kangaroos have been sighted, and even the most ardent lovers of scenery are at once on the alert.
Up and down hill we go, with many a slip and a scramble, horse and rider none the worse. The kangaroos rush at a tremendous speed, some of them carrying a young one in their pouch; one poor beast is so hard pressed she throws the young one out of her pouch; it hops away through the grass, to be caught later by friendly hands and carried home as a pet. No such luck for the mother, the hounds are on her and she is rolled over, and on they go again in pursuit of her fleeter companions.
A big fence has scattered them, but one, more plucky than the rest, makes a frantic spring. Alas! the quick run has been too much for his powers and he gets caught on the merciless barbed wire. The foremost rider, thinking the kangaroo would clear it, is preparing to take the fence in a flying leap, but the sight of the kangaroo caught makes the horse baulk, and crash they all come down together. With a wonderful quickness the rider rolls himself away from the fallen horse and is helping the animal up, both none the worse, except for a few scratches and a good shaking.
Everyone is now agreed that luncheon has been well earned, so we ride and drive (for a buggy and pair of ponies have been following in our tracks) to a favourite spot. And what a sight breaks on our eyes! We are in a valley, with hills towering around us, the river makes a sharp bend, along the banks are a mass of wattle trees in full bloom, the beautiful yellow flowers lighting up the dark green leaves and reddish brown bark. The sky is cloudless, and a little way off, lies a herd of Devon cattle, quietly chewing the cud, and mildly wondering what has brought such a large party, evidently bent on play instead of work, to their retreat. We see a ripple on the still, deep, flowing water, and a platypus swims along quickly to his nest on the bank. A little lower down we hear the whirr of the wild duck, which have been disturbed by our coming.
A fire is soon lighted; one is told off to unpack the basket of good things; another grills some steak, someone else undertakes potatoes, the oldest bushman of the lot says he will regale us with "Johnnie Cakes." These are made of flour and water and a little salt, rolled very thin and cooked in the ashes, and very good they prove to be; and last, but not least, we make the tea, boiling the water in a tin pot and putting the tea into it.
In about half an hour our various cooks have all ready, and we lie about on the grass and satisfy the cravings of hunger. After that pipes are lighted and stories go round of former exploits, how wild horses have been caught and tamed, how thousands of kangaroos have been driven into yards made for the purpose and died of suffocation in the crowd; of adventures with wild cattle and blacks, etc., etc. More serious subjects, too, are being discussed in twos and threes; for there is something quiet and soothing in the scene around, that brings to mind memories long forgotten, joys and sorrows long past, and amid this picture of peace and beauty, friends talk and open their hearts to each other, and realise the fact that nature can preach a more eloquent sermon than is heard from many a pulpit. But everything in this world must come to an end; the horses are caught and harnessed and we all jog homeward. On the way the younger spirits of the party have a gallop after stray kangaroos and bring the tails back with them as trophies.
One incident in the last chase may be worth mentioning. The kangaroos are bounding along, with the hounds and horsemen close behind them. They come to a three rail fence of heavy timber; without a miss the kangaroos take it in a flying leap and apparently without any extra exertion; over go the hounds, and the horsemen follow to a man, then the excitement increases for they are coming to a big lagoon; splash goes a kangaroo into it and now we see a real fight. The kangaroo stands up to his neck in the water, beating about with his legs, and the hounds swim around. A young one, not knowing the danger, makes a snap at his throat, he is instantly seized in the animal's arms and his back broken. Poor Daisy! your hunting days have been short and you had yet to learn that discretion was the better part of valour. The older hounds keep swimming round, gradually coming nearer, and several at once make snaps at different parts of the kangaroo. A hand-to-hand fight takes place, the kangaroo ripping and wounding the hounds with his powerful hind claws; but the plucky beasts keep their hold, and amid yelps of rage and pain, the splashing and reddening of the water, and the shouts of the huntsmen to encourage the hounds, the victim sinks, after a vigorous struggle for his life.
As we drive down the mountains the sun is setting, banks of heavy clouds are rising, tinged with purple, and prophesying a thunderstorm, which is made more sure by the distant roar we hear. There is a stillness in the air, broken by the cracking of the brushwood and the ominous cry of birds. Suddenly a streak of lightning startles us, followed by a loud crash which echoes round and round. We hurry home, and only arrive just in time to escape a thorough soaking, for the rain comes streaming down.
Beatrice M. Jenkins.
CYCLING.
By Mrs E. Robins Pennell.
"There should be nothing so much a man's business as his amusements." Substitutewomanforman, and I, for my part, cannot quarrel with Mr Stevenson's creed. Our amusements, after all, are the main thing in life, and of these I have found cycling the most satisfactory. As a good healthy tonic, it should appeal to the scrupulous woman who cannot even amuse herself without a purpose; it has elements of excitement to attract the more adventurous. It is a pleasure in itself, the physical exercise being its own reward; it is a pleasure in what it leads to, since travelling is the chief end of the cycle. That women do not yet appreciate it at its true worth, that, as a rule, they would still rather play tennis or pull a boat than ride a bicycle, is their own great loss.
Cycling is the youngest of woman's sports. It did not come in until the invention of the tricycle, or three-wheeled machine; necessarily it was out of the question for anyone wearing skirts, divided or otherwise, to mount the tall bicycle, or "ordinary." In 1878 tricycles, invented at a still earlier date, were first practically advertised, and one of the authors of the book on cycling in theBadminton Librarysays, that already in that year "tradition told of a lady rider, who, in company with her husband, made an extended tour along the south coast; and in quiet lanes and private gardens feminine riders began to initiate themselves into the pastime." But, despite the courage of their pioneer, not until a few years later did they desert private lanes for public roads, and then it was only in small numbers. Had they been more enterprising, a serious hindrance in their way was the fact that at first makers refused to understand their requirements. The early tricycles made for us were meant to be very ladylike, but they were sadly inappropriate. It was really the tandem which did most to increase the popularity of the sport among women. The sociable, where the riders sit side by side, was the first of the double machines, but it is an instrument of torture rather than of pleasure, as whoever has tried to work it knows to his or her cost. Its width makes it awkward and cumbersome even on good roads, and when there is a head wind—and the wind always blows in one's face—the treadmill is child's play in comparison. The tandem, on which, as the name explains, one rider sits behind the other, takes up no more space than a single tricycle and offers no more resistance to the wind, and this means far less work. Besides, for many women to have a man to attend to the steering and braking, in those early days was not exactly a drawback; but even with the tandem progress was not rapid. I remember my first experience in 1884, when I practised on a Coventry "Rotary" in the country round Philadelphia, and felt keenly that a woman on a cycle was still a novelty in the United States. I came to England that same summer, but the women riders whom I met on my runs through London and the Southern Counties, I could count on the fingers of one hand. The Humbers had then brought out their tandem, and for it my husband and I exchanged our "Rotary," and started off in the autumn for Italy, where we rode from Florence to Rome. I have never made such a sensation in my life, and, for my own comfort, I hope I may never make such another: I ride to amuse myself, not the public. It was clear that Italian women were more behindhand than the English or Americans. There are, nowadays, more women riders in France, probably, than in any country, but in the summer of 1885, on the road from Calais to Switzerland, by Sterne's route, I was scarce accepted as an everyday occurrence.
Single tricycles improved with every year, and the introduction of the direct-steerer, or well-known "Cripper" type, assured their popularity. More attention being paid by makers to women's machines, more women were seen on the roads. Then came the greatest invention of all, the "Woman's Safety." A certain benevolent Mr Sparrow, had, some years before, in 1880 to be accurate, built a woman's bicycle, a high one with the little wheel in front, something like the American "Star"; but the awkwardness of mounting and dismounting made it impracticable. Men had been riding the dwarf bicycle for two or three years before one was introduced with a frame that made it as suitable and possible for women. How near this brings us to the present, is proved by the fact that in the Badminton book, published in 1887, though there is a chapter on "Tricycling for Ladies," there is nothing about bicycling for them. I experimented in 1889 with a tandem safety, on which the front seat was designed for women, and then the single safety, with a dropped instead of a diamond frame, was already in the market. But it had made slight headway. In America it grew more rapidly in favour. The average road there is worse than here, and therefore the one track—the bicycle's great advantage—was much sooner appreciated. Cycling for women has never become fashionable in the United States, but, in proportion, a far greater number of American women ride, and with almost all the safety is the favourite mount. In France also the sport is more popular with women than in Great Britain, and one might almost say that it is the safety which has made it so. Riding through Prussia, Saxony and Bavaria in the summer of 1891, I met but two women cyclists, and they both rode safeties. In England, however, women, until very recently, have seemed absurdly conservative in this matter; they clung to the three wheels, as if to do so were the one concession that made their cycling proper. A few of the more radical—"wild women" Mrs Lynn Linton would call them—saw what folly this was, and many have now become safety riders; but not the majority. Only the other day, in Bushey Park, I met a large club on their Saturday afternoon run; half the members were women, but not one was on a bicycle. This, I know, is but a single isolated instance, but it is fairly typical.
And yet the safety is the machine of all others, which, were my advice asked, I would most care to recommend. And I would have the wheels fitted with cushion tyres—the large rubber tyre with a small hole down the centre—or, better still, with pneumatics, the tyres that are inflated with air. Both deaden vibration. The latter necessitate carrying an air-pump and a repairing kit, for if the rubber be cut or punctured, as frequently happens, the air, of course, escapes at once, and the cut or puncture must be mended and the tube blown up again, which means trouble. But the many improvements introduced make the task of repairing easier every day. My career as a bicyclist began in 1891, but, short as it may seem, I think it has qualified me to speak with authority. For my little Marriot, and Cooper's "Ladies' Safety," carried me across Central Europe, and as far east as the Roumanian frontier. My experience agrees with that of all other safety riders, men or women. The chief advantage of the machine is, as I have said, its one track, but this cannot be over-estimated. Roads must be, indeed, in a dreadful condition if space for one wheel to be driven easily over them cannot be found. The bicyclist can scorch in triumph along the tiniest footpath, while the tricyclist trudges on foot, pushing her three wheels through the mud or sand. Moreover, there is less resistance to the wind, and in touring, it is far easier to dispose of the small light safety than of the wider machine when you put up in a little inn at night, or are forced for a time to take the train. Many a night in Germany, Austria, and Hungary did my bicycle share my bedroom with me.
The chief drawback to the safety is usually found in learning to mount and steer. I shall be honest, and admit that there is a difficulty. The tricycle has the grace to stand still while the beginner experiments, but the safety is not to be trifled with. Sometimes it seems as if a look were enough to upset it. Of course, at first, it is well to let someone hold and steady it until its eccentricities are mastered, for it is entirely in the balancing that the trouble lies; the mount in itself is as simple as possible. The rider stands to the left of the machine by the pedals; taking hold of the handle bars she slowly wheels it until the right pedal is at the highest point, turns the front wheel a little to the right, and puts her right foot on the right pedal; this at once starts the machine and raises her into the saddle, and as the left pedal comes up, it is caught with her left foot. The great thing is to have confidence in the machine; she who shows the least fear or distrust is completely at its mercy. To dismount is as simple: when the left pedal is at its lowest point, the right foot is brought over the frame and the rider steps to the ground. If a sudden stop be necessary, she must put the brake on, not too abruptly, or she may be jerked out of the saddle.
The steering is the true difficulty in safety riding, and yet it cannot well be taught; it must come by practice, with some very painful experiences in the coming. The obstinacy of the safety seems at first unconquerable. During my apprenticeship, many a time have I been going in a straight line with every intention of keeping on in it, when, without warning, my safety has turned sharply at a right angle, rushed to the ditch and deposited me there. But the funny part of it is, that the woman who perseveres, gradually, she can scarcely explain how, gets the better of its self-willed peculiarities until she has it under perfect control.
The best plan is, in the very beginning, to take a few practical lessons. There is an excellent teacher to be found at Singers' shop, in Holborn Viaduct, where a cellar paved with asphalt is kept as a school. The beginner would do well to practise there until she can at least sit up on the machine and balance it a little, and until she begins to understand the first principles of steering. At this point in bicycling education I would urge her to leave the schoolroom for the high road. If she waits until she is too far advanced on asphalt, where the machine goes almost by itself, she may have to commence all over again on an ordinary road. She should learn what is called ankle action from the start. Once the cyclist gets into a bad style of riding it is hard for her to get out of it; and the more the ankle comes into play the less strain is there on the muscles of the legs. A good rider expends half as much energy and makes far better time than the woman who has not mastered the art. If going up hill be exhausting, why, then it is wise to walk. Going down, if the hill be long, the brake must be used from the start, and to know how to back-pedal is important. To back-pedal is to press on the pedal when it is coming up instead of when it is going down. Nothing could be more dangerous than to lose control of a machine on a down grade. Some of the most serious accidents have been the result of the rider's letting her cycle run away with her in coasting.
I have enumerated the virtues of the bicycle. As to its vices, I do not find that it has any. An objection often is raised against it because, if brought to a stand-still by traffic or any other cause, the rider must dismount at once. But I do not count this a serious hardship; I have never been inconvenienced by it. Again, it is urged that the luggage-carrying capacity of the safety is small compared to that of the three-wheeled machine. This is truer of the woman's than of the man's bicycle, since we, poor things, must carry our knapsack behind the saddle or on the handle bars, while a most delightful and clever little bag is made by Rendell & Underwood to fit into the diamond frame of a man's safety. But, for a short trip, actual necessities—that is, a complete change of underclothing, a night-dress, and a not too luxurious toilet case—can be carried in the knapsack slung behind. For a long trip it is always advisable to send a large bag or trunk, according to the individual's wants, from one big town to the next on the route.
Luggage suggests the subject of dress, as important to the woman who cycles as to the woman who dances. A grey tweed that defies dust and rain alike, makes the perfect gown; if a good, strong waterproof be added, a second dress will not be needed. For summer, a linen or thin flannel blouse and jacket—perhaps a silk blouse, for evening, in the knapsack—and, for all seasons, one of Henry Heath's felt hats complete the costume. For underwear, the rule is wool next the skin, combinations by choice. Woollen stays contribute to one's comfort, and each rider can decide for herself between knickerbockers and a short petticoat. There is something to be said for each. This is practically the outfit supplied by the Cyclists Touring Club for its women members. As for style, an ordinary tailor-made gown, simple rather than elaborate, answers the purpose of the tricyclist. The bicyclist does not get off so easily. Even with a suitable dress-guard, and, no matter what the makers say, the dress-guard should extend over the entire upper half of the rear wheel, there is ever danger of full long skirts catching in the spokes and bringing the wearer in humiliation and sorrow to the ground. Many strange and awful costumes have been invented to obviate the danger—one that is skirt without and knickerbockers within; another that is nothing more nor less than a shapeless bag, when all that is needed is a dress shorter and skimpier than usual, with hem turned up on the outside, and absolutely nothing on the inner side to catch in the pedals. Now, the trouble is that for the tourist, who carries but one gown, and who objects to being stared at as a "Freak" escaped from a side show, it is awkward, when off the bicycle, to be obliged to appear in large towns in a dress up to her ankles; she might pass unnoticed in Great Britain, but on the Continent she becomes the observed of all observers. At the risk of seeming egotistic, I will explain, as I have already explained elsewhere, the device by which I make my one cycling gown long and short, as occasion requires. There is a row of safety hooks, five in all, around the waistband, and a row of eyes on the skirt about a foot below. In a skirt so provided, I look like every other woman when off the machine. Just before I mount, I hook it up, and I wheel off with an easy mind, knowing there is absolutely nothing to catch anywhere. I have read in cycling papers many descriptions of other women's bicycling costumes, but never yet have I discovered one which, for simplicity and appropriateness, could compete with mine.[9]
On all that concerns touring, it is important to dwell, for it is in travelling on the road that women must find chief use for their cycles, and this they have had the common sense to realise. Quite a number belong to the Cyclists' Touring Club, and are among its more active members. True, a few have appeared on the path, have turned the highway into a race course, and occasionally, have broken records and done the other wonders to which I, personally, attach no value, whether they be performed by men or women. Mrs J. S. Smith, whose husband is the manufacturer of the "Invincible" cycles, has with him, on his "sociable" and tandem, run at several Surrey meetings and in other places, and her feats are included in the list of the world's records. Mrs Allen of Birmingham, once rode two hundred miles in twenty-four hours. Fraulein Johanne Jörgensen, the woman champion of Denmark, is fast breaking the records of her own country, and threatens to come over and break those of England. The ease with which Mrs Preston Davies (wife of the inventor of the Preston Davies tyre) rode up Petersham Hill, though not exactly a record, made quite a little talk among cyclists. Miss Reynolds, who rode from Brighton to London and back in eight hours, is the heroine of the day. We have even seen a team of women professionals imported from America only to meet with the failure they deserved. But, fortunately, these are the exceptions. I say fortunately, because, while I am not prudish enough to be shocked by the mere appearance of women on the path, I do not think they have the physical strength to risk the fearful strain and exertion. If men cannot stand it for many years, women can still less. Cycling is healthy; to this fact we have the testimony of such men as Dr Richardson and Dr Oscar Jennings, whose books on the subject should be consulted by all interested; especially Dr Jenning's "Cycling and Health," since in his chapter on "Cycling for Women," he has collected together the opinions of leading authorities. Like everything else, however, if carried to excess, cycling becomes a positive evil.
It can be overdone on the road, but here the temptations are not so great. I know many women who have toured often and far, and are none the worse for it. There are few, however, who have taken notable rides. Mrs Harold Lewis of Philadelphia, once, with her husband, travelled on a tandem from Calais across France and Switzerland, and over some of the highest Swiss passes. In the Elwell tours from America—a species of personally-conducted tours on wheels—women have more than once been in the party. But of other long journeys so seldom have I heard, that sometimes I wonder if, without meaning to, I have broken the record as touring wheel-woman. But the truth is, that, while every racing event is chronicled far and wide in the press, the tourist accomplishes her feats without advertisement, solely for the pleasure of travelling by cycle.
And what stronger inducement could she have? Hers is all the joy of motion, not to be under-estimated, and of long days in the open air; all the joy of adventure and change. Hers is the delightful sense of independence and power, the charm of seeing the country in the only way in which it can be seen; instead of being carried at lightning speed from one town to another where the traveller is expected and prepared for, the cyclist's is a journey of discovery through little forgotten villages and by lonely farm-houses where the sight-seer is unknown. And, above all, cycling day after day and all day long will speedily reduce, or elevate, her to that perfect state of physical well-being, to that healthy animal condition, which in itself is one of the greatest pleasures in life.
Women have used cycles for other purposes. Doctors ride them to visit their patients, the less serious go shopping on them. Clubs have been formed here, and more successfully in America. There is at least one journalist, Miss Lilias Campbell Davidson, who is on the staff of theBicycling Newsand theCyclists' Touring Club Gazette. But, when all is said, the true function of the cycle is to contribute to the amusement and not the duties of life, and it is in touring that this end is best fulfilled.
Elizabeth Robins Pennell.
PUNTING.
By Miss Sybil Salaman.
That punting is an art, and a very graceful one, was borne in upon me late one hot, lazy, summer afternoon, while idly musing under the verandah of a houseboat on the upper Thames, and from that day to this, one of my most ardent desires has been to become an expert punter. It was in the prettiest reach on the river, just above the lock, that the houseboat lay. The sun was setting behind the trees, and tinting with a rosy glow the mist that was creeping up from the bank. Perfect peace was over the scene, and did not Nature abhor silence as much as she does a vacuum, I might almost say that silence rested upon the river. But birds sang, now and then a fish would jump, curl its silver body in the air, and return to its watery home with a splash, the mooring chains of the houseboat were grating as the river rippled by, and in the distance was the hissing sound of the weir. Suddenly there came a noisy intrusion, the peacefulness was disturbed, the air was full of discordant voices and the irregular splashes of ill-managed oars, for the lock-gates had opened and let loose a crowd of noisy, scrambling, Saturday half-holiday folk. Happily, they soon passed by, and the sound of their incongruous chatter and laughter, and intermittent splashing followed them out of my ken, and then all was quiet and peaceful again, and I was left gazing dreamily at the disturbed fishes darting about in the shallow water where the houseboat lay.
Presently a gentle rippling sound caused me to look up. A girl was punting past, there was no splashing, no scramble, apparently no effort. The girl never moved from where she stood, only her body swayed backwards and forwards on her pole, easily and evenly, and the long straight craft glided by, answering to every touch. I hardly realised then that this slim, graceful girl was doing all the work herself, it looked so easy and simple. The water bubbled aloud under the bow of the punt, and the girl's shadow floated on the water, the red sunlight lay like a pathway before her, and the ripples seemed to part to make way for her as she brought her punt steadily along. She made a lovely picture, and I watched her as she went down the river, in the rising mist and the sunlight, marvelling at the straight line she kept, watching the monotonous motion of the pole rising and falling, and listening almost unconsciously for the hollow ring of the shoe striking on the hard ground, till a sudden bend in the river took her out of sight, though, for some time, I still saw the top of her pole over the bushes rhythmically rising high in the air and disappearing from view. From that moment I decided to be a punter—this girl was once only a beginner—surely, I thought, there was hope for me.
I need not dwell on all my personal experiences—there is a great sameness about the first efforts of all punters, they all go round in circles. But there are certain hints which beginners will do well to follow.
First of all they must not be discouraged by the inevitable clumsiness of their first endeavours, the ease and grace of punting comes only after much experience.
To the girl who wishes seriously to become a punter, it is far better, having once understood the principle by which a punt is propelled and steered, to go out and struggle alone. If someone is always by to take the pole from her, should any difficulty arise, she will not gain that independence which is so absolutely essential to every punter.
Just a word as to dress.
A good punter can dress as she pleases, but all beginners get wet; no one can teach them how to avoid this until they have acquired a certain style. Therefore I should recommend a serge skirt, not too long, that will stand any amount of water, a loose blouse, with sleeves which can unbutton and roll up; shoes with low heels, and, for preference, india-rubber soles, as they prevent slipping if the punt be at all wet.
As in rowing and sculling the work in punting is distributed all over the body, and does not only exercise the arm, as so many beginners imagine. In punting, all the weight of the body should be thrown back on the pole with the push, which, by the way, should never be given until the shoe has gripped the ground. This brings into play all the muscles of the back, shoulders, and arms, also the hips. This upright position is attained by swinging the body back on the pole when the shoe has gripped the ground, while one foot is firmly planted a little in advance, and the other leg rests behind with bended knee, thus enabling the arms to be kept nearly straight and the hands well over the water.
Punting in this stationary position is technically called "pricking." Of the different styles of punting I shall speak more fully later on.
The greatest difficulty for the beginner is to keep the punt straight, but to achieve this it is only necessary to be always watching the bow of the punt, and to remember that whichever way the top of the pole points, the bow will run in the opposite direction. In steering there are, practically speaking, two strokes—in one the pole is thrown in away from the side of the punt, which brings the bow in towards the bank, and in the other the pole is dropped in under the bottom of the punt, which turns the bow away from the bank. A punter, by the way, always punts from the side nearest the bank. But the steering should not be perceptible, and must never be allowed to detract from the strength of the stroke. It is effected, as I have said, by the angle at which the pole is thrown in, and also by the position of the shoe on the ground at the finish of the stroke. The direction of a punt with "way" on is altered by the slightest touch.
The very bad habit of steering with the pole behind off the ground, using the pole as a rudder, is never practised by good punters. In very deep water, or in a strong stream, it must either break or strain the pole, and it is not nearly so quick or effectual a way of steering as the proper method I have described.
There are two ways of punting, known respectively as "pricking" and "running." Roughly speaking "running" is more general on the upper river, that is, above Windsor, and "pricking" on the shallower and less muddy waters of Staines and Sunbury; though "pricking" is much more popular in all parts of the river than it was a year or so ago—very few people "run" punts below Maidenhead now.
For "running" all the weight should be in the stern. The punter must not go too far forward up the bow or she will stop the "way" of the punt. A steady pressure should be kept up while walking down the punt once the pole is thrown into the water, and a strong push given at the finish in the stern. If the pressure is too great at the commencement of the stroke, by the time the stem is reached the bow will have run out into the stream, so that, at the finish of the stroke, too much force has to be used to bring the punt in again. This detracts from the speed and causes a zig-zag course. As in "pricking," there should not be too much steering. It is impossible, in "running" a punt, to steer entirely without the effort being perceptible. Against a strong stream and wind, and with a heavy load it is often far easier to "run." For "pricking," the punter assumes a stationary position in the stern, about a third of the way up the punt and facing the bow, while all the weight to be carried is put in front of the punter. The pole must never be reversed to bring the punt in or out, but kept the same side, that is, in the shallow water nearest the bank. The pole should be thrown in as near the side of the punt as possible without scraping it each time. This enables the punter to keep an upright position, and exert more force than if the pole were held far away from the punt.
A pole is taken out hand over hand, and should be recovered in as few movements as possible. In racing especially a quick recovery is a very great advantage. It should be taken out in two movements in shallow water, so that a fast punter would be ready to throw in her pole for the next push before a punter with a slow recovery had taken her pole out of the water. Of course, in very deep water, two movements will be found impossible.
In an ordinary way, and going up stream, the pole is thrown about opposite to with the body, but going down, in a very strong stream the pole should be thrown in some way in advance of the body, otherwise the punter loses her grip on the ground in consequence of the stream carrying the punt so rapidly on that the pole floats uselessly out in the stream, and no time is given for the push. A punt can be stopped dead by reversing the pole—not to the opposite side of the punt, but by throwing it in in the opposite direction to that in which the punter is pushing. A punt is sometimes considered somewhat awkward to turn, but the distance of her own length is nearly enough in reality if she is turned properly! When the "way" on her is stopped the pole should be thrown in the other side, across the deck—the shoe pointing a long way off from the punt, so that the pole slants right across, the punter facing the stern. This stroke repeated once or twice will turn a punt almost in her own water.
When crossing strong streams, the bow must be kept well up against the stream, or the current will carry the punt right round. In a strong wind the same precaution is necessary. It is sometimes easier in much wind to push the punt backwards—the stern foremost, the punter standing in the bow. A punt is not so much influenced by the wind with all the weight in front, and is therefore easier to keep straight. If the bow is out of the water, it is blown from one side to the other, and it is often very difficult to steer. In the wash of a steamer punters should keep away from the bank, or the punt may be swept on to it, when it will probably ship water.
In going over new ground, it is well to be prepared for mud or loose shingle. If there has been any dredging, the ground is always loose, and it is easy to lose one's balance if quite unprepared for the ground crumbling away under a hard push. The same thing takes place with an unexpected deep hole, where the pole is flung in and cannot reach the bottom.
If a punter be always prepared for these things, there is no danger, but an unthinking beginner is apt to throw in her pole fiercely, and on finding it stuck fast in the mud, she will probably fall in herself if she clings to it valiantly but foolishly. Never cling to a pole therefore—rather let it go. For this reason, or in case of accidentally breaking a pole, punters should always carry an extra one in the punt.
Some people have straps on the outside of their punts for extra poles, but these are apt to be a nuisance in locks, and they spoil the trim and neat appearance of a punt. Beware of a wooden bottom to a lock, for the shoe of the pole may stick fast in the wood and the bow of the punt swing round across the lock-gates.
A punt has one great disadvantage.
In a lock full of boats, perhaps half the number of people do not know how to manage their own boats, and have not the least idea how to get out of the lock. Therefore they are apt to dig their boat-hooks into the nearest punt, if they can, and expect to be towed out. So, while looking out for a wooden bottom to the lock, beware also of those "boat-hooks fiends" who do not think it necessary to learn how to manage their boats so long as they can splash about with a pair of sculls, and trust to a punter guiding them safely out of locks.
Keep the pole between the punt and the side of the lock to avoid the greasy sides.
Double punting, that is two persons punting together simultaneously, is very effective on the river. To do this the punter may stand in various ways, but I consider the best is for both punters to stand in the stern, almost back to back, one a little in advance of the other, to set the stroke. This necessitates hardly any steering, for, with a pole on each side, the punt will keep itself straight if both strokes are of equal strength. In turning, the inside one should hold the punt steady, while the other pushes—the punt will then turn as on a pivot.
Some people stand at opposite ends of the punt, with both poles one side, but I cannot recommend this method, because too much weight is then thrown on to one side, and a punt will not travel well unless properly balanced. In all double punting little or no steering should be required if both work well together. But wherever the punters may stand, the most important point is to keep time—perfect time. This is asine qua nonin all good double punting. Nothing looks so bad as to see two persons double punting when quite regardless as to time.
Both poles must be recovered together and in the same number of movements, otherwise it looks a scramble, and the poles appear to be of different lengths.
The principle of steering is, of course, the same in double punting as in "pricking" and "running," only that here the work is divided, the business of one being to bring the bow in, the other to take it out. Punters must never interfere with each other's stroke, and never seem to be waiting. If the last stroke has been too strong, so that it has sent the punt out of the ordinary course, or not strong enough, so that she has run in, the punter should not wait till her fellow punter's stroke has corrected the fault, but should throw in her pole in time with the other, even if no pressure be required at all, just to keep the time. The strongest punter should be at the back, if there be any difference.
Punts vary from the heavy fishing ones to the narrow and unsteady racing craft. But a useful punt for ordinary work is about 3 feet wide and 26 feet long. The seat is arranged about 3 to 4 feet from the deck, allowing just room for the punters to stand. This is, of course, intended for "pricking" from the stern. A semi-racer, to hold one person besides the punter, is about 22 inches or 2 feet wide, about 27 feet long. A racing punt about 16 or 17 inches wide and from 30 to 32 feet long.
Really the most important item to a punter is the pole, though many inexperienced people give all their attention to their punts, while they think almost any pole will do, in which they are very much mistaken. The pole is, if anything, more important than the punt itself. For my own part, I prefer to any other a made pole about 15 or 16 feet long. For hard work and long distances this is certainly the best. Great attention must be paid to the shoe. If the prongs be too close they will pick up stones continually, and probably split the pole or break. The best shoe for ordinary work is shaped something like a horse-shoe, but the prongs must not incline inwards on account of stones. The prettiest and most graceful shoe is one with rather long prongs, not too close, made of nickle-plated iron. The shoe should always be heavy enough for the pole. Poles are made of various woods, and steel tubing has been tried, but these, however, have not been found very practical. Larch poles are apt to splinter, red larch are better, but they are not very strong, and they are very difficult to obtain, while they are seldom quite straight. Bamboo poles are very well for a calm river, with little or no stream, but they are not much use for hard work, they are so light that they are always inclined to be top-heavy. All bamboos should have very heavy shoes, and even then they must be heavily weighted in addition. It is almost impossible to get them heavy enough at the bottom. A pole should sink at once, and not require pushing down. It will be found that a bamboo has to be held down, or it will rise of its own account and float out, giving no time for the push. They are considered unbusiness-like by serious punters. But sometimes at regattas they are found useful. The Henley course, for instance, is very deep all the way along the meadow side, even quite near the bank, therefore a long pole is necessary, and these are apt to be very tiring and heavy when punting all day. A bamboo must never be left out in a hot sun when it is wet, or it will crack between the joints and when put back into the water will fill, so that the water runs out over one's hands and arms. But of whatever kind the pole may be it must be properly balanced, and not top-heavy. The lightest punt will not make up for a badly-balanced pole. In racing this should be remembered. It is customary to "prick" from the middle of the punt in racing. A stroke called the overhand push is much used for speed. After the first push is given, and the pole is bent with the chest, without moving the back foot, only the heel of the front one, and, turning the body, a second push is given. The advantage of this is that the punter is able to push twice without taking the pole out of the water, and a longer swing of the body is accordingly obtained. When women race, they do so in ordinary punts, not in racing punts. There are not many punting races open exclusively to ladies; in fact, as far as I can ascertain, they are only included in the programmes of the regattas at Goring and Streatly, at Wargrave and at Cookham, and the Thames Ditton and Hampton Court Aquatic Sports. At the Maidenhead and Taplow Town Regatta there is a Lady's and Gentleman's Double Punting Race, and there is some talk of a Ladies' Punting Championship competition being inaugurated at Maidenhead.
In spite of the paucity of punting races for ladies, however, there are several ladies in various parts of the Thames whose style and speed have won for them something more than local renown. For instance, at Staines, there are Mrs Hamilton, Miss Kilby and Mrs George Hunter; at Maidenhead, Miss Ethel Lumley and Miss Annie Benningfield; at Bray, Miss Maud Lumley; at Hampton, Miss D. Hewitt, who in '91 won the Ladies' Punting Competition at the Hampton Court and Thames Ditton Aquatic Sports. In addition to these, there is Mrs Sharratt of Surly Hall Hotel, better known, perhaps, as Miss Ada Morris, the daughter of the lock-keeper at Bray, who has the reputation of being one of the best punters, if not the best, on the Thames. Some people punt Canadian canoes, but this, though pretty when well done, does not come under the heading of serious punting.
The practice of paddling punts is often indulged in on crowded courses, such as Henley in the regatta week, but this I need hardly say is never done by good punters. Even there it is far better to use a long pole.
In conclusion, I think I may say that there is no prettier sight on the whole river than a girl, neatly dressed, punting well and gracefully; but, like riding, it is an exercise which must be done well. A hot-looking girl struggling with her pole is a spectacle that must excite anything but admiration from either the river or the bank. Good style and ease, so important in punting, come only after much practice.
Sybil Salaman.