of the world are a heavy burden and a grievous unto you.  You have a mission, you must testify; it will forth, in season and out of season.  For man, he wakes and sleeps and sins betimes:  but crows sin steadily, without any cessation.  And this unhappy state of things is your own particular business.  Even at this distance I seem to hear you rasping it:  ``Salvation, damnation, damnation, salvation!’’ And the jolly earth smiles in the perfect evenglow, and the corn ripples and laughs all round you, and one young rook (only fledged this year, too!), after an excellent simulation of prostrate, heart-broken penitence, soars joyously away, to make love to his neighbour’s wife. ``Salvation, damnation, damn —­ ‘’ A shifty wriggle of the road, and he is transformed once more.  Flung back in an ecstasy of laughter, holding his lean sides, his whole form writhes with the chuckle and gurgle of merriment.  Ho, ho! what a joke it was!  How I took you all in!  Even the rooks!  What a joke is everything, to be sure!

Truly, I shall be glad to get quit of this heartless mummer.  Fortunately I shall soon be past him.  And now, behold! the old dog waxes amorous.  Mincing, mowing, empty sleeve on hollow breast, he would fain pose as the most irresistible old hypocrite that ever paced a metropolitan kerb. ``Love, you young dogs,’’ he seems to croak, ``Love is the one thing worth living for!  Enjoy your present, rooks and all, as I do!’’ Why, indeed, should he alone be insensible to the golden influence of the hour?  More than one supple waist (alas! for universal masculine frailty!) has been circled by that tattered sleeve in days gone by; a throbbing heart once beat where sodden straw now fails to give a manly curve to the chest.  Why should the coat survive, and not a particle of the passion that inspired it long ago?

At last I confront him, face to face:  and the villain grins recognition, completely unabashed.  Nay, he cocks his eye with a significant glance under the slouch of his shapeless hat, and his arm points persistently and with intelligence up the road.  My good fellow, I know the way to the Dog and Duck as well as you do:  I was going there anyhow, without your officious interference —­ and the beer, as you justly remark, is unimpeachable.  But was this really all you’ve been trying to say to me, this last half-hour?  Well, well!

The White Poppy

A riot of scarlet on gold, the red poppy of our native fields tosses heavy tresses with gipsy abandon; her sister of the sea-shore is golden, a yellow blossom that loves the keen salt savour of the spray.  Of another hue is the poppy of history, of romance, of the muse.  White as the stark death-shroud, pallid as the cheeks of that queen of a silent land whose temples she languorously crowns, ghost-like beside her fuller-blooded kin, she droops dream-laden, Papaver somniferum, the poppy of the magic juice of oblivion.  In the royal plenitude of summer, the scarlet blooms