You won’t find buried treasures, you won’t get sudden luck,
  But things’ll just go smoothly that used to get somehow stuck—­
  The little things that matter, the trumpery things that please,
  You catch your santamingo and you’re always sure of these.

  You don’t get thrones and kingdoms, you don’t turn great or good,
  But you know you’re just in tune with things, you know you’re understood,
  And wherever you chance to be is home and any old time’s the best
  When you’ve got your santamingo to keep your heart at rest.

  If ever you’ve dreamed of a golden day when nothing at at all went wrong,
  Or a pal who’d want no tellings but would somehow just belong,
  Or a place that said, “I was made for you”—­well, sailor-men tell you
      flat,
  You catch your santamingo and you’ll find it all like that.

* * * * *

  I’ve sailed from the Mahanadi to north of the Nicobar,
  But I can’t find Evening Island where the santamingoes are,
  Though I’ve taken salt to put on their tails and all that a hunter
      should—­
  Perhaps you can’t really catch them; but don’t you wish you could?

  H.B.

* * * * *

    “Capitalist who will consider financing Canadian oil fields or will
    send English theologist to investigate property.”—­Daily Paper.

And do the clerical work, we suppose.

* * * * *

From a description of the V.C.’s at Buckingham Palace:—­

    “There were a sergeant-major arranged in nine separate groups, and an
    attempt had been made to get old comrades together as far as possible.”
    —­Provincial Paper.

The reassembling of the sergeant-major must have taken a bit of doing.

* * * * *

MY RAT.

He visits me at least once every day.  His favourite time is the hour of tea, when the family and staff may be expected to be at home; but sometimes he honours us with an additional call at the luncheon hour.  He emerges from his deep hole beneath an ivy root, takes the air up and down the paths of my rockery, glances in at the drawing-room window, passes on to the back premises, and so home.

There is nothing furtive about his movements.  His manner is that of one who has purchased the mansion and its appurtenances but does not wish to disturb the sitting tenants.  It is his duty to sea that the premises are properly cared for, but for the present he has no desire to take possession.  It is beautiful weather and the simple life out-of-doors contents him.

He is a brown rat.  I write of his sex with confidence because his urbanity is that of a polished gentleman of the world; no feminine creature could ever display it.  A female rat who had bought the house would eagerly try to get in and drive us forth.  But not so my rat.  He discharges the function of a landlord as considerately as he can; after all, even a landlord must be allowed the rights of inspection of his own property.