But no, I bethought me of the price of leather.  They would have reserved the boots, even at the risk of suspicion.  Moreover, no one would ever reach that exacting altitude in a state of succulence.

A glow of sympathy, a thrill of appreciation swept through me as I realised what was at once the worthiest and the likeliest explanation.

Who shall plumb the depths of the affection of a true pedestrian for his boots, the companions and comfort of so many a pilgrimage?  Who but the climber, the hill-tramp, knows the pang of regret with which he faces at last the truth that his favourite boots are past repair, the sorrow and self-reproach with which he permits them to be consigned to Erebus?

I saw it all.  As the Roman veteran hung upon the temple wall of Mars the arms he might no longer wield, so hither came some lofty-minded climber, bearing in devoted hands his outworn and faithful boot, to leave it sadly and with reverence in this most worthy resting-place, here to repose at the end of all the roads it had trod, on the highest of all the native hills it had climbed.

W.K.H.

* * * * *

=Another Impending Apology.=

    “Mr. Roberts, Member of Parliament, has arrived.  Mr. Roberts is a
    tall and well-built gentleman with a posing appearance.”

Mysore Patriot.

* * * * *

    “Families supplied in 18, 12 or 6 gallon casks.”—­Hertford
    brewer’s notice.

Where’s your DIOGENES now?

* * * * *

    “The dinner was in the House of Commons, and I sat next to Henry. 
    I was tremendously impressed by his conversation and his clean
    Cromwellian face.”

From a famous autobiography.

It was, we trust, the CROMWELL touch rather than the cleanness that was so impressive.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Ancient Gardener (who has just been paid).  “OI SAY, MAISTER, THERE’S SUMMAT WRONG WI’ MA BRASS.”

Employer. “WHAT’S THAT, JOHN?”

A.G. “WHA, SITHEE, THA’S GI’EN MA ONE TA MONY.”

Employer. “YOU’RE VERY HONEST, JOHN.”

A.G. “WEEL, THA SEES I THOAT IT MID ‘A’ BIN A TRAP.”]

* * * * *

NEW RHYMES FOR OLD CHILDREN.

THE EARWIG.

  How odd it is that our Papas
  Keep taking us to cinemas,
  But still expect the same old scares,
  The tiger-cats, the woolly bears,
  The lions on the nursery stairs
      To frighten as of old! 
  Considering everybody knows
  A girl can throttle one of those
  While choking with the other hand
  The captain of a robber band,
      They leave one pretty cold. 
  The lion has no status now;