'Twas harvest time and close and warm, A day when tankards foam, But when there came the thunder-storm We'd got the last load home; We'd knocked off work--as custom is-- Though 'twern't but four o'clock, And turned in to Jim Stevens's, That keeps "The Fighting-Cock." The rain roared down in thunder-thresh, And roared itself away, And left the earth as sweet and fresh As though 'twas only May; And from outside came stock and clove And half-a-dozen more; And then up steps a piping cove, A-piping at the door. We tumbles out to hear him blow, _Tu-wit_, he blew, _tu-wee_, On rummy pipes o' reeds a-row Their likes I never see; And as he blew he shook a limb And capered like a goat, And us bold lads we looks at him Like rabbits at a stoat. An oddly chap and russet red, He capered and he hopped, A bit o' sacking on his head Although the rain had stopped: _Tu-wee_ he blew, he blew _tu-wit_, All in the clean sunshine, And oh, the creepy charm of it Went crawling up my spine. I don't know if the others dreamed-- 'Cos why, they never tell-- But in a little bit it seemed I knew the tune quite well; It seemed to me I'd heard it once In woods away and dim, Where someone with a horned sconce Came capering like him. It held me tight, that tune o' his, It crawled on scalp and skin, Till sudden--'long o' choir-practice-- The belfry bells swung in; The piping cove he turned and passed, Till through the golden broom A mile along we saw him last Go lone-like up the coombe. The belfry bells they rang--one--two; The spell was lift from me, The spell the oddly piper blew-- _Tu-wit_, he went, _tu-wee_; The spell was lift that he had laid, But still--_tu-wee_, _tu-wit_-- I can't forget the tune he played, And that's the truth of it. * * * * * ANOMALIES OF FEMININITY. [Illustration: WHY IS IT THAT MISS BIRDIE MONTRESSOR (OF THE PALACEUM) ATTENDS THE ARTISTS' BALL AT COVENT GARDEN LIKE THIS? WHILE MRS. DUMPERLEY-BROWNE (OF WEST KENSINGTON) APPEARS AS ABOVE?] * * * * * THE AUTHOR. I was reading proofs in my corner of the compartment, as I often do, and every time that I looked up I noticed the little shabby pathetic man with his eyes fixed upon me. After a while I finished and put the proofs away with a sigh of relief. "So you're an author too?" he said. "Yes," I said, though I didn't want to talk at all. "You wouldn't have thought I was one," he went on, "would you? What would you have said I did for a living?" I am too old to guess such things. One nearly always gives offence. Moreover, I have seen too many authors to show any surprise. "I'm not only a writer," he said, "but I dare say I'm better known than you." "That's not difficult," I said. "I am read by thousands--very likely millions--every day."