It is a pity you’re too old for the army; you might have been shot by now.

  Faithfully yours,
  FREDERICK PETHERTON.

I had now got on to my fourth speed, and dashed off this reply:—­

DEAR FREDDY,—­I like you in all your moods, but positively adore you when you are angry.  As a matter of fact I am very fond of what are so absurdly known as dumb animals, and am glad now that the chemist’s was closed last night before I decided whether to go there or not.  BALAAM himself would have been proud to own your animal.  It roused me from my bed this morning with what was unmistakably a very fine asinine rendering of the first few bars of “The Yeoman’s Wedding,” but unfortunately it lost the swing of it before the end of the first verse.

  Yours as ever,
  HARRY.

Petherton gave up the contest; but I let him have a final tweak after seeing the announcement of his splendid and public-spirited action to help on the War Food scheme.

DEAR OLD BOY (I wrote),—­How stupid you must have thought me all this time!  Only when I learnt from the paragraph in this morning’s Surbury Examiner that, in response to the suggestion of the Rural District Council, you have lent your field to the poor people of the neighbourhood for growing War Food did I realise the meaning of the dulcet-toned donkey’s presence in your field.

The growing of more food at the present time is an absolute necessity, but it was left to you to discover this novel method of proclaiming to Surbury that here in its midst was land waiting to be put to really useful purpose.

I do not know which to admire the more, your patriotism or the ingenuity displayed in your selection of so admirable a mouthpiece from among your circle of friends.

  Yrs.,
  H.

Petherton has left it at that.

* * * * *

NURSERY RHYMES OF LONDON TOWN.

(SECOND SERIES.)

XVIII.

BAYSWATER.

  The Bays came down to water—­
    Neigh!  Neigh!  Neigh! 
  And there they found the Brindled Mules—­
    Bray!  Bray!  Bray! 
  “How dare you muddy the Bays’ water
    That was as clear as glass? 
  How dare you drink of the Bays’ water,
    You children of an Ass?”

  “Why shouldn’t we muddy your water? 
    Neigh!  Neigh!  Neigh! 
  Why shouldn’t we drink of your water,
    Pray, pray, pray? 
  If our Sire was a Coster’s Donkey
    Our Dam was a Golden Bay,
  And the Mules shall drink of the Bays’ water
    Every other day!”

XIX.

KENTISH TOWN.

  As I jogged by a Kentish Town
    Delighting in the crops,
  I met a Gipsy hazel-brown
    With a basketful of hops.

  “You Sailor from the Dover Coast
    With your blue eyes full of ships,
  Carry my basket to the oast
    And I’ll kiss you on the lips.”