Many years ago, they tell me, there _was_ a butcher in Bond Street. Perhaps you dealt there. For my part I was not eating much meat in those days. But I can imagine his window--a perfect little grotto of jasper and onyx, with stalactites of pure gold, and in the middle, resting on a genuine block of Arctic ice, an exquisite beef-sausage. I wish he could come back. It is difficult to realize that there is anything but shop-windows in Bond Street, but I like to think that, up there in those upper stories which one never sees, there does dwell a self-contained little community for whom Bond Street is merely the village street, down which the housewives pass gossiping each morning to the greengrocer’s or the fishmonger’s, and never purchase any pearls at all. When the butcher comes back I think I shall join them. The Little Guiggols [I understand that there is a dearth of the kind of horrible little plays which the public really wants. It ought not to be difficult to meet that want. Nearly everybody I know is good at dialogues but can’t do plots; personally I teem with plots, but am not so good at dialogue. So I propose to present you with the ground plan--the _scenario_--of a few really sensational, thrilling and, on the whole, unpleasant playlets, and you can do the rest.] I THE MISSING STAR (_Based on an old legend, and also, I am sorry to say, on fact._) The scene is the interior of a small tent at a country fair. Through the open door can be seen the back of Bert, who is shouting madly, “Walk up! Walk up! Now showin’--the Performin’ Fleas! Edward! Edward! Does everything but talk. Walk up! Walk up!” Seven or eight people file sheepishly into the tent and stand reverently in front of the small table under the single bright light--a soldier and his love, two small boys, a highly respectable mater and paterfamilias, with Reginald in an Eton collar, also a young man who may be a barrister, or possibly one of those writing fellows. They do not look at each other; _they are ashamed_. The red velvet curtain is drawn across the door of the tent, muffling the wild noises of the fair. Mr. Slint, the little showman, adjusts his gold pince-nez and speaks; the audience close round the table and crane their necks. Mr. Slint speaks in the patronizing, almost contemptuous, tones of the expert lecturer who has something unique to offer. _Mr. Slint_ (_quietly_). I now show you the Performing Fleas. The fleas are common fleas, trained by myself. Perseverance and patience is alone required. _The Writing Fellow_ (_intelligently_). You never use the whip? _Mr. Slint_ (_taking no notice_). Now the nature of the flea is to ’op; it is _not_ the nature of the flea to _walk_. I ’ave trained the fleas to walk. I will now show you the flea as newly captured. Being still untrained, ’e still ’ops, you see.