“Then we’ll end the strike,” said the Queen.

Here the Brown Owl bustled in, carrying a little note-book.

“I’ve found out lots more,” he said excitedly.  “We must have an executive and delegates and a ballot and a union and a Sankey Commission report and a scale of the cost of living and a datum line and—­”

“But the strike’s over,” said the Queen.  “It was a misunderstanding.”

“Of course,” he said huffily.  “All strikes are that, but it’s correct to carry them on as long as possible.”

“And the blacklegs are to have a special reward.”

“That’s illogical,” muttered the Brown Owl.

He was right, of course, but things are illogical in Fairyland.  That’s the nicest part of it.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Salesman.  “IT IS POSSIBLE THAT IT MAY INTEREST YOU TO KNOW THAT OUR CAR WAS DRIVEN UP ALL THE FLIGHTS OF STEPS AT THE CRYSTAL PALACE.”

Inquiring Visitor.  “WELL—­ER—­NOT MUCH.  YOU SEE, I LIVE IN A BUNGALOW.”]

* * * * *

    “Fears are entertained that the chalice, which is of silver-gilt,
    may have been broken up and investments profaned.”—­Daily
    Herald.

We should have thought that our Communistic contemporary was the last paper that would have considered investments sacred.

* * * * *

“K.  T. B——­ and T. W. H——­, both of Liverpool, who were in company with Mr. L——­ in the car, agreed that the speed was about fifty-one miles an hour.  On the gradient and at the turn it was not safe to travel faster.”—­Provincial Paper.

One of those examples of “Safety First” which we are always pleased to chronicle.

* * * * *

  =THE OPENING RUN.=

  The rain-sodden grass in the ditches is dying;
    The berries are red to the crest of the thorn;
  Coronet-deep where the beech-leaves are lying
    The hunters stand tense to the twang of the horn;
  Where rides are refilled with the green of the mosses,
    All foam-flecked and fretful their long line is strung;
  You can see the white gleam as a starred forehead tosses,
    You can hear the low chink as a bit-bar is flung.

  The world’s full of music.  Hounds rustle the rover
    Through brushwood and fern to a glad “Gone away!”
  With a “Come along, Pilot!”—­one spur-touch and over—­
    The huntsman is clear on his galloping grey;
  Before him the pack’s running straight on the stubble—­
    “Toot-toot-too-too-too-oot!” “Tow-row-ow-ow-ow!”
  The leaders are clambering up through the double
    And glittering away on the brown of the plough.