When I was at Hawarden in the summer of 1893, little Dorothy Drew asked her grandfather for the loan of a book “to press flowers in.”  It is a process, as readers may know, not good for the book, and I thought the illustrious statesman and bibliophile looked a little embarrassed.  But his face cleared in a moment, and he went out of the room and presently returned with a sufficient volume, in which the flowers were duly laid, the book being then, with the united efforts of the company, subjected to the necessary pressure under a heavy cabinet.  Anxious to know which volume of his beloved library Mr. Gladstone had selected for desecration, I took an early opportunity of furtively examining the title of the tortured tome.  It was Coningsby.

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Another impending apology.

    “Councillor ——­’s son will be married to the eldest daughter of
    Councillor ——.  The members of the Corporation are invited to the
    suspicious event.”—­Local Paper.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  The distractions of an indispensable.]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Sergeant.  “Now, ME LAD, A SUIT OF MUFTI OR FORTY-FIVE SHILLINGS?” Tommy.  “OO, LUMME!  I’LL PAY THE FINE.”]

* * * * *

GALLERY PLAY.

It wasn’t till Panmore noticed its absence on his return from France that I remembered the little oil painting which I had left at the Ferndale Gallery on sale or return, during the early days of the War, when my financial outlook was bad.

Panmore said he had always wanted to buy it, but hadn’t liked to ask me if I would part with it.  I assured him that excess even of delicacy was a mistake and that I would try to get the picture back.

So I wrote to the Gallery thus:—­

DEAR SIRS (it seemed absurd to write “Dear Gallery"),—­In 1914 or 1915 I brought you a small oil painting, which you agreed to sell or return to me.  As I haven’t heard from you since, I conclude that there has been nothing doing in such pictures and I should like to have it back.  The picture is quite a small one, about the size of an ordinary book, and so far as I recollect it portrays a man looking at a horse, to see if its withers stand where they did; or perhaps wondering whether he would sell it and buy a scooter.  As a matter of fact I never took particular notice of the picture, not caring for it, but a friend of mine who knows it well appears interested in it and wants to buy it.  So please let me have it back as soon as possible.

    Yours faithfully,

    THEOPHILUS B. PIPER-CARY.

    P.S.—­By the way, there’s a cow, I remember, in the background; a
    red one.  Not a red background; a red cow.