My last is of ebony, ivory-topped.  Even though I should spend another fortnight abroad I could not take this stick with me.  It is not a stick for the country; its heart is in Piccadilly.  Perhaps it might thrive in Paris if it could stand the sea voyage.  But no, I cannot see it crossing the Channel; in a cap I am no companion for it.  Could I step on to the boat in a silk hat and then retire below—­but I am always unwell below, and that would not suit its dignity.  It stands now in a corner of my room crying aloud to be taken to the opera.  I used to dislike men who took canes to Covent Garden, but I see now how it must have been with them.  An ebony stick topped with ivory has to be humoured.  Already I am considering a silk-lined cape, and it is settled that my gloves are to have black stitchings.

Such is my last stick, for it was given to me this very morning.  At my first sight of it I thought that it might replace the common one which I lost in an Easter train.  That was silly of me.  I must have a stick of less gentle birth which is not afraid to be seen with a soft hat.  It must be a stick which I can drop, or on occasion kick; one with which I can slash dandelions; one for which, when ultimately I leave it in a train, conscience does not drag me to Scotland Yard.  In short, a companionable stick for a day’s journey; a country stick.

The ideal country stick will never be found.  It must be thick enough to stand much rough usage of a sort which I will explain presently, and yet it must be thin so that it makes a pleasant whistling sound through the air.  Its handle must be curved so that it can pull down the spray of blossom of which you are in need, or pull up the luncheon basket which you want even more badly, and yet it must be straight so that you can drive an old golf ball with it.  It must be unadorned, so that it shall lack ostentation, and yet it must have a band, so that when you throw stones at it you can count two if you hit the silver.  You begin to see how difficult it is to achieve the perfect stick.

Well, each one of us must let go those properties which his own stick can do best without.  For myself I insist on this—­my stick must be good for hitting and good to hit with.  A stick, we are agreed, is something to have in the hand when walking.  But there are times when we sit down; and if our journey shall have taken us to the beach, our stick must at once be propped in the sand while from a suitable distance we throw stones at it.  However beautiful the sea, its beauty can only be appreciated properly in this fashion.  Scenery must not be taken at a gulp; we must absorb it unconsciously.  With the mind gently exercised as to whether we scored a two on the band or a one just below it, and with the muscles of the arm at stretch, we are in a state ideally receptive of beauty.