“It comes from the trees,” said the turkey.  “The leaves drip and then there is rain, and the more they drip the heavier it rains.”

“It is my kennel,” chuckled Bruno, the wise old dog.  “The more it leaks the more it rains.”

At that very moment it began to rain in torrents.

“The pond is full,” quacked the ducks.  “Look at the pond.”

“Oh, do look at the hen-house roof—­dripping!” shrieked the hens.

“The leaves—­look at the leaves,” gurgled the turkeys.

“And my kennel leaks.  I can feel it on my back,” chuckled Bruno.

“The barometer has gone down,” said the guinea-fowl.

But no one took any notice of her—­quite properly.

* * * * *

The Housing Problem.

    “Three chicken coops, also pigeon-house, for pole; suitable for
    lady.”—­The Lady.

* * * * *

The Open-Air Cure.

    “The Telegraaf learns from its correspondent at the frontier that on
    yesterday (Monday) afternoon a fresh air attack was made on
    Zeebrugge.”—­Morning Post.

A pleasant change from stuffy shells.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THE ETERNAL FEMININE.

“THAT SHADE.  WOULDN’T ’ALF SUIT ME.”

“LOR LUMMY, LIL!  WOT TISTE—­AN’ YOU A BLONDE!”]

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE MILL.

[Most of our water-mills have fallen into decay and disuse owing to the unsuitability of their machinery to grind imported grain.  Will the revival of English grain production bring about a renewal of their usefulness?]

  As by the pool I wandered that lies so clear and still
  With tall old trees about it, hard by the silent mill
  Whose ancient oaken timbers no longer creak and groan
  With roar of wheel and water, and grind of stone on stone,

  The idle mill-race slumbered beneath the mouldering wheel,
  The pale March sunlight gilded no motes of floating meal,
  But the stream went singing onward, went singing by the weir—­
  And this, or something like it, was the song I seemed to hear:—­

  “By Teviot, Tees and Avon, by Esk and Ure and Tweed,
  Here’s many a trusty henchman would rally to your need;
  By Itchen, Test and Waveney, by Tamar, Trent and Ouse,
  Here’s many a loyal servant will help you if you choose.

  “Do they no longer need us who needed us of yore? 
  We stood not still aforetime when England marched to war;
  Like those our wind-driven brothers, far seen o’er weald and fen,
  We ground the wheat and barley to feed stout Englishmen.

  “You call the men of England, their strength, their toil, their gold,
  But us you have not summoned, who served your sires of old;
  For service high or humble, for tribute great and small,
  You call them and they answer—­but us you do not call.