A TOBACCO PLANT. I had done the second hole (from the vegetable-marrow frame to the mulberry-tree) in two, and was about to proceed to the third hole by the potting-shed when I thought I would go in and convey the glad news to Joan. I found her seated at the table in the breakfast-room with what appeared to be a heap of tea spread out upon a newspaper in front of her. Little slips of torn tissue-paper littered the floor, and on a chair by her side were several empty cardboard boxes. The sight was so novel that I forgot the object of my errand. "What's all that tea for, and what are you doing with it?" I asked. "It isn't tea; it's tobacco," Joan replied, "and I'm making cigarettes for the soldiers at the front." "Where on earth did you get that tobacco from, if it _is_ tobacco?" I went on. "Let me see now," mused Joan, pausing to lick a cigarette-paper--"was it from the greengrocer's or the butcher's? Ah! I remember. It was from the tobacconist's." Joan gets like that sometimes, but I do not encourage her. "But what made you choose this Hottentot stuff?" I enquired. "The soldiers like it strong," Joan replied, "and this looked about the strongest he'd got." "What does it call itself?" "It was anonymous when I bought it, but you'll no doubt see its name on the bill when it comes in." "Thanks very much," I said. "That's what I should call forcible fleecing. Not that I mind in a good cause----" "Isn't it ingenious?" interrupted Joan. "You just put the tobacco in between the rollers, and twiddle this button round until--until you've twiddled it round enough; then you slip in a cigarette-paper--like that--moisten the edge of it--twiddle the button round once more--open the lid--and shake out the finished article--_comme ca!_" An imperfect cylindrical object fell on to the floor. I stooped to pick it up and the inside fell out. I collected the _debris_ in the palm of my hand. "How many of these have you made?" I asked. "Only three thoroughly reliable ones, including _that_ one," she replied. "I've rolled ever so many more, but the tobacco _will_ fall out." "Here, let me give you a hand," I suggested. "I'll roll and you lick." "No," said Joan kindly but firmly. "You don't quite grasp the situation. I want to do something. I can't make shirts or knit comforters. I've tried and failed. My shirts look like pillow-cases, and anything more comfortless than my comforters I couldn't imagine. I wouldn't ask a beggar to wear an article I had made, much less an Absent-Minded Beggar." "What about that tie you knitted for me last Christmas?" I said. "Yes," said Joan; "what about it? That's what I want to know. You haven't worn it once." It was true, I hadn't. The tie in question was an attempt to hybridise the respective colour-schemes of a tartan plaid and a Neapolitan ice.