And then I saw it.  On the farther side of the road there is a stretch of short turf, some hundred yards wide; and beyond that an irregular line of silver birches; and beyond that the blue of distant hills, for the Common slopes down where the trees begin.  Between the silvery wood and the road, through the midst of the wide belt of turf, and parallel with the Boundary, ran a river.  There was nothing to be much surprised at, for it was just the kind of river you would expect to see running through the fields of fairyland.  It was a river of grass.

It was the slender-stalked, tufted, not very tall, grey-headed grass that grows quite generally in open country and wild places.  But the wind and the sun now turned it into a river which ran fast between its banks of green, its waves silvery grey, quick-flowing waves, gleaming and dappled, an endless succession.  It flowed from somewhere out of sight in the west, and disappeared to the east over the edge of the great slope that brings you down to the woods, vanishing, to all intents and purposes, over the edge of the world.

Without taking my eyes off this astonishing spectacle I stretched out a hand and, catching “3.7” by the edge of his white smock, told him to run across the road to the grass and—­paddle in it.  I said it was better than motor cars.  He made no comment on this but, after glancing warily up and down the road (for he has been brought up in wholesome awe of the entire tribe of automobiles), he crossed the Boundary, ran across the turf and plunged up to his knees in the river.

I cannot be certain, but it is my considered opinion that Apollo stopped his golden chariot for the space of a whole minute to look down at the golden-haired boy wading in that noiseless, fast-flowing river.

 In another minute “3.7” was back at my side, both hands full of the
 tufted grass he had pulled.  I regret to say he tickled my ear with it.

* * * * *

Honest, solemn reader, ardent food reformer, keen educationist, clear-headed moralist, practical-minded housewife, I tell you frankly there is no moral to this little episode.  It throws no light on what to eat, or on the purchasing power of an English shilling, or on the ethical training of young children, or on the nature of neurasthenia.  Fairyland, of course, is a childish fiction, Apollo a solar myth, a road is a road, grass is grass and heaven is a state of mind.  I quite agree with you.  But let me whisper something in your ear.  If you should ever blunder across your Boundary, don’t be surprised if things look queer on the other side; above all, whatever you do, don’t let any strange river you may find flowing there carry you away, or it may bring you, spite of all your protests, through one of the gates of pearl into the City of God.

 EDGAR J. SAXON.

 A SCIENTIFIC BASIS FOR MENTAL HEALING.