“All I say is that you can put up larch and make a temp'ry job of it; and by the time the young master's married it'll have to be done again. Now, I've brought down a couple of as sweet six-by-eight oak timbers as we've ever drawed. You put 'em in an' it's off your mind for good an' all. T'other way--I don't say it ain't right, I'm only just sayin' what I think--but t'other way, he'll no sooner be married than we'll 'ave it _all_ to do again. You've no call to regard my words, but you can't get out of that.” “No,” said George after a pause; “I've been realising that for some time. Make it oak then; we can't get out of it.” THE RECALL I am the land of their fathers, In me the virtue stays; I will bring back my children, After certain days. Under their feet in the grasses My clinging magic runs. They shall return as strangers, They shall remain as sons. Over their heads in the branches Of their new-bought, ancient trees, I weave an incantation, And draw them to my knees. Scent of smoke in the evening, Smell of rain in the night, The hours, the days and the seasons Order their souls aright; Till I make plain the meaning Of all my thousand years Till I fill their hearts with knowledge, While I fill their eyes with tears. GARM--A HOSTAGE One night, a very long time ago, I drove to an Indian military cantonment called Mian Mir to see amateur theatricals. At the back of the Infantry barracks a soldier, his cap over one eye, rushed in front of the horses and shouted that he was a dangerous highway robber. As a matter of fact, he was a friend of mine, so I told him to go home before any one caught him; but he fell under the pole, and I heard voices of a military guard in search of some one. The driver and I coaxed him into the carriage, drove home swiftly, undressed him and put him to bed, where he waked next morning with a sore headache, very much ashamed. When his uniform was cleaned and dried, and he had been shaved and washed and made neat, I drove him back to barracks with his arm in a fine white sling, and reported that I had accidentally run over him. I did not tell this story to my friend's sergeant, who was a hostile and unbelieving person, but to his lieutenant, who did not know us quite so well. Three days later my friend came to call, and at his heels slobbered and fawned one of the finest bull-terriers--of the old-fashioned breed, two parts bull and one terrier--that I had ever set eyes on. He was pure white, with a fawn-coloured saddle just behind his neck, and a fawn diamond at the root of his thin whippy tail. I had admired him distantly for more than a year; and Vixen, my own fox-terrier, knew him too, but did not approve. “'E's for you,” said my friend; but he did not look as though he liked parting with him. “Nonsense! That dog's worth more than most men, Stanley,” I said. “'E's that and more. 'Tention!” The dog rose on his hind legs, and stood upright for a full minute.