The theme was too difficult for the bairns; they could not see the ludicrous side. I don't think one of them visualised the poor old woman gazing in dismay on the workmen unloading the crate. H. M. Bateman would have made an excellent drawing of the incident. I tried another theme. "A few days ago I gave you a ha'penny each," I said. "Write a description of how you spent it, and I'll give sixpence to the one who tells the biggest lie." I got some tall yarns. One chap bought an aeroplane and torpedoed a Zeppelin with it; one girl bought a thousand motor-cars. But Jack Hood, the dunce of the class, wrote these words: "I took it to the church on Sunday and put it in the clecshun bag." I gave him the tanner, although I knew that he had won it by accident. I don't think that Jack will ever get so great a surprise again in this life. * * * We rambled out to sketch this afternoon. It was very hot, and we lay down under a tree and slept for half-an-hour. Suddenly Violet Brown started up. "Here's Antonio!" she cried, and the Italian drew his van to the side of the road. "A slider for each of us," I said, and he began to hustle. My turn came last. "You like a glass, zir, instead of a zlider?" said Antonio. "Yes," I replied, "a jolly good suggestion; I haven't had the joy of licking an ice-cream glass dry for many a long day." It was glorious. On the way back a girl bought sweets at the village shop. She gave me one. "Please, sir, it's one of them changing kind," she said. "Eh?" I hastily took it out and looked at it. "By George, so it is, Katie!" I cried, "I thought they were dead long since." It was white at first but it changed to blue, then red, then green, then purple. Unfortunately, I bit it unthinkingly, and I never discovered its complete spectrum. I call this a lucky day; ice cream and changing balls in one afternoon are the quintessence of luck. But man is insatiable; to-night I have a great craving for a stick of twisted sugarelly--the polite call it liquorice. * * * A couple of Revivalists came to the village a week ago, and they have made a few converts. One of them stopped me on the road to-night and asked if I were saved. "I am, or, at least, was, a journalist," I said, and walked on chuckling. Of course he gaped, for he did not know why I chuckled. I was thinking of the reporter sitting in the back seat at a Salvationist Meeting. A Salvation lass bent over him. "Are you saved, my friend?" she whispered. He looked up in alarm. "I'm a journalist," he said hastily. "O! I beg your pardon," she said, and moved on.