Ours was quite an up-to-date bomb, one of the sort that “went clean through the wood pavement to the depth of a couple of feet, and made a hole large enough to bury a man in, and not a sound window within a mile radius.” That’s the kind of bomb _ours_ was! And it was trimmed in the latest fashion, with a policeman, and a cord right round it, and two gentlemen with pickaxes who scratched the surface of the wood blocks occasionally in the intervals of looking important. They were wearing them like that in London at the time. Of course we, in common with the whole parish, swelled with pride; for a while all social distinction was waived, rich and poor alike took the same interest in the bomb, or at least in the hole it had made; the bomb itself was removed so quickly that no local eye save that of the police and the pickaxe gentlemen ever saw it; though the milkman averred that, as he was driving to the station in the early dawn, he saw a van going in the opposite direction; he couldn’t see what was in it, hence it certainly was carrying away the bomb. For the rest of us, however, we had to be content with a brave effort to get as near to the cord as we could, and crane our heads above our shorter brethren in order to catch a glimpse of the gaping void, while a thrill went down every spine, irrespective of bank balances. And we might have remained in that splendidly democratic frame of back unto this day (no one being anxious to have any closer acquaintance than his neighbour with the bomb), had it not been that a piece of shrapnel was discovered in the garden next us. Whereupon the owner developed much upliftedness, and his servants bragged amain. My own staff took it even more to heart than I did; and it was amazing how much time it was necessary for all hands to spend in the garden in order to cut a cabbage or gather three sprigs of parsley. Between them they didn’t leave an inch of the garden unexplored, and it is a fair-sized one. Then the following morning Abigail rushed in excitedly with the news that she had discovered a piece of shrapnel in the bonfire débris. I went down to inspect, and was shown an oblong piece of curved iron, wider at one end than the other, and with a sharp spike at the wider end. I confess that to me it was wonderfully reminiscent of the old trowel that had lost its wooden handle and had lain unhonoured and unsung for a year in the leaf-heap; but I said nothing about _that_. Whatever its origin, it was crumpled up a bit with heat, one could see—not surprising either, as we had had a roaring bonfire two days running and burnt up all the pile of dead leaves. When I was devising plans for its removal, they said, Hadn’t it better wait there till the master came home?