“A little French, isn’t it?” someone inquired.

“Oh, yes, it’s French,” she admitted.  “But it’s all right, isn’t it?  It’s quite nice French.”

We assured her that, for a French phrase, it was singularly free from impropriety.

“But of course,” she said, “there’s an Italian equivalent, ‘Bella Vista.’  ‘Bella Vista’ is delightful.”

“I passed a ‘Bella Vista’ in Surbiton yesterday,” said the frivolous voice, “and an errand-boy had done his worst with it with a very black lead pencil.”

“What could he do?” the gentle lady asked wonderingly, with big violet eyes distended.

“It is not for me to explain,” said the frivolous voice; “but the final vowel of the first word dissatisfied him and he substituted another.  The capabilities of errand-boys with pencil or chalk should never be lost sight of when one is choosing a name for a front gate.”

“I am all at sea,” said the lady plaintively.  Then she brightened.  “Is there no prominent landmark visible from the new house?” she asked.  “It is so high there must be.”

Our hostess said that by cutting down two trees it would be possible to see Windsor Castle.

“Oh, then, do cut them down,” said the lady, “and call it ‘Castle View.’  That would be perfect.”

During the panic that followed I made a suggestion.  “The best name for it,” I said, “is ‘Buckler’s.’  That is what the country people will call it, and so you may as well forestall them and be resigned to it.  Besides, it’s the right kind of name.  It’s the way most of the farms all over England once were named—­after their owners, and where the owner was a man of character and force the name persisted.  Call it ‘Buckler’s’ and you will help everyone, from the postman to the strange guest who might otherwise tour the neighbourhood for miles searching for you long after lunch was finished.”

“But isn’t it too practical?” the first lady asked.  “There’s no poetry in it.”

“No,” I said, “there isn’t.  The poetry is in its owner.  Any man who can stand in an open field under a July rainstorm and show another man where his bedroom is to be in a year’s time is poet enough.”

E.V.L.

* * * * *

TO ISIS.

  Isis, beside thine ambient rill
    How oft I’ve snuffed the Berkshire breezes,
  Or, prone on some adjoining hill,
  Thrown off with my accustomed skill
    The weekly fytte of polished wheezes;
  How oft in summer’s languorous days,
    With some fair creature at the pole, I
  Have thrid the Cherwell’s murmurous ways
  And dared with lobster mayonnaise
    The onslaughts of Bacillus Coli?

  Once—­it was done at duty’s call—­
    My labouring oar explored thy reaches;
  They said I was no good at all
  And coaches noting me would bawl
    Things about “angleworms and breeches;”
  But oh! the shouts of heartfelt glee
    That rang on thine astonished marges
  As we bore (rolling woundily)
  Full in the wake of Brasenose III. 
    And bumped them soundly at the barges.