Almost immediately afterwards this man discovered that all the knives in the kitchen were blunt and went and fetched some kind of private grindstone and sharpened them, and then told me that the apple-trees ought to be grease-banded, which I thought was a thing one only did to engines.  And, when he had brought a hammer and some nails and put together a large bookcase which had collapsed as soon as The Outline of History was put on to it (I should like to know whether Canon BARNES can explain that), I was obliged to ask him to stop, in case the tramping men should see him and strike immediately for fear of the dilution of labour.

But what impressed me most was the part he took next day in the Railway Carriage Conference, which curiously enough was on the subject of strikes.  There were several people in the carriage, and they were talking about what they had done during the railway strike last year, and what they would do if such a thing happened again.  I said I should like to be a station-master if possible, because they had top-hats and grew such beautiful flowers.  Only four or five trains seem to stop at our station during the day, and if there was a strike I suppose the number would be reduced to one or two.  And I thought it would be rather nice to spend the day wearing a top-hat and watering the nasturtiums in the little rock-gardens behind the platform.  Watering, I said, was quite easy when once one got into the swing of it.

But the man who could do everything seemed to know everything too, and he told me that station-masters were much too noble to strike.  There were two kinds of station-masters, he said, both wearing top-hats, but one kind with full morning-dress underneath it and the other with uniform.  But neither kind struck.

Slightly nettled at his superior knowledge, I asked him, “What did you do during the Great Strike?”

“Oh, I had rather fun,” he said; “I controlled the signals at London Bridge.”

If all the truth were known I expect that he is quite ready for Mr. SMILLIE’S strike; that he has a handy little pick in his bedroom and knows of rather a jolly little coal-mine close by.

EVOE.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Mother (firmly, to little daughter about to have a tooth drawn).  “NOW, BETTY, IF YOU CRY, I’LL NEVER TAKE YOU TO A DENTIST’S AGAIN.”]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  The Woman.  “I DO WISH YOU TWO WOULD WALK PROPERLY.”]

* * * * *

FLOWERS’ NAMES.

FOOL’S PARSLEY.

  In the village of Picking’s Pool
  Lived Theobald, the village fool;
  He had been simple from his birth
  But kindly as the simple earth,
  And in his heart he sang a song
  Of “Ave, Mary” all day long.