out to him, surely the precious fluid that he so passionately desiderates can be taken out to him too.  At present, therefore, all my thoughts are turned upon the construction of some kind of wheeled waggon, such as is in use at a well-known restaurant in the Strand, on which fifteen cups (two for the umpires) and an urn and sugar and milk can be conveyed, with the concomitant bread-and-butter, or shrimps or meringues, or whatever is eaten with the tea, on a lower shelf.  This could be pushed on to the ground at 4.15 and pushed back again at 4.20 without any serious injury to the match.  That is my idea at the moment; but I am a poor mechanic and should be glad if some properly qualified person—­someone with a HEATH ROBINSON mind—­would take the work over.

E.V.L.

* * * * *

IN THE MOVEMENT.

How I came to be able to understand the language of trees is a secret.  But I do understand it.  It is my peculiar privilege to overhear all kinds of whispered conversation—­green speech in green shades—­as I take my rest underneath the boughs on a country walk.  Some day I shall set down fully the result of these leaves-droppings, but at the moment I want to tell only of what I heard some blackberry bushes saying last week.

“From what I hear,” said the first bush, “the cost of everything’s going up by leaps and bounds.”

“How is that?” asked one of its neighbours.

“It’s due, I understand,” the first bush replied, “partly to scarcity of labour and partly to profiteering.”

“I don’t see why we shouldn’t participate,” said another bush.  “Here we are, covered with fruit, and it’s all just as free as ever it was.  That’s absurd, after a big war.  The duty of a war is to make things dearer and remove freedom.”

“Of course,” said the others.

“’Your blackberries will cost you more’—­that should be our motto,” said the first bush.  “We must be up to date.”

* * * * *

A few days later, after one of our infrequent post-bellum gleams of sunshine, I met the Lady of the White House and all her nice children returning from a day’s blackberrying.  They showed me their baskets with a proper pride, and I was suitably enthusiastic and complimentary.

“But do look at our poor hands and arms and our torn frocks!” said the lady.  “We’ve picked blackberries here year after year, but we’ve never been so badly scratched before.  It’s extraordinary.  I can’t account for it.”

I could, though.

* * * * *

THE MOON-SELLER.

  A man came by at night with moons to sell;
    “Moons old and new,” he cried;
  I hurried when I heard him call for me;
  He set his basket on the wall for me
    That I might see inside
  And watch the little moons curl up and hide.