“There I quite agree with you,” I answered meditatively.  “Though I have rather excepted Melisande from the general rule I have always considered a cat an exceedingly dangerous animal, and a cat with rabies is, of course, ten times worse; it simply oughtn’t to be allowed.”

“I felt sure you would agree with me,” said Angela.

Melisande is a staid creature of placid demeanour and generous proportions.  It had never occurred to me hitherto to associate her with rabies, and I still felt that she herself would scoff at the idea.

We were gathered round the fire, my wife, my daughter and I; Angela seated on what is known, I believe, in upholstering circles as a humpty, while Peggy lay on her tummy on the floor, pencil in hand and a sheet of paper before her; she was chewing the pencil with the ruminating air of one who awaits inspiration.  I myself occupied the armchair.

“You know,” said Angela presently, “I think Melisande has seemed worried about something the last few days.  I do hope the poor dear isn’t bothering about rabies.  One so often hears of people actually producing a disease merely by thinking a lot about it.  By the way, I’m told that one of the earliest manifestations of rabies is a desire to bite inanimate objects; if we see her doing that we shall know that the time has come to act.”

At this juncture Melisande entered the room through the open window.

Her manner exhibited a curious blend of dignity and caution; I could more readily have suspected my own mother of having rabies.  She advanced slowly towards us till suddenly her eye lighted on Peggy, who still chewed her pencil awaiting inspiration.

Melisande stopped as though she had been shot; I could only surmise that the sight of Peggy thus occupied had confirmed her darkest suspicions.  With one wild shriek of terror she fled from the room.

* * * * *

THE NEGLECTED PROBLEM.

O dear and delectable journal that daily
Appeasest my hungering mind
With items recounted or gravely or gaily
Of doings at Margate, Mayfair or Old Bailey,
Or paragraphs rare and refined
On “Who will the forthcoming cinema star be?”
“What horse to support with your shirt for the Derby;”
“How much will the next price of beer at the bar be?”
“Are halibuts blind?”

A question arises I prithee examine
And ponder the pull that it has
Over headings like “Foch and Parisian Gamine,”
“Are Bolshevists really believers in Famine?”
Or “Vocalist Lynched at La Paz.” 
I look for it oft and in vain and say, “Blow it! 
There must be an answer and England should know it.” 
Here, then, is the problem that’s haunting the poet: 
Does Germany Jazz?

* * * * *

“William Henry ——­, aged 110, fell off a tree whilst out
playing with other boys and broke his right leg.”—­Provincial
Paper.