In vain I produced vocal effects calculated to charm away the love of travel from the breast of any canary; then, as Balaam persistently refused to come to me, I proceeded slowly but surely, and accompanied by the cage, to make my way to him. Whether tree-climbing shares the same age limit as that assigned to recruits, or whether the cage was too severe a handicap, I don't know, but halfway up I somehow found myself marooned on an obviously inadequate branch. For several minutes I balanced uncertainly. Then someone began to pass along the road beyond the hedge. As it seemed probable that their owner might prove of use to me, I hailed the footsteps with a shout. The footsteps stopped and I shouted again. This time there was a faint scream in answer and a mauve-and-white bonnet bobbed agitatedly up the road. After a few more minutes of delicate and masterly balancing I was relieved to hear the approach of quite a number of people from the other side of the orchard. Evidently the mauve-and-white bonnet had thoroughly realized my perilous position, for my rescuers seemed to include almost the entire village. Even the Vicar was there, armed with an assegai--no doubt a missionary trophy. It was thoughtful of them to have turned out in such numbers to rescue a mere visitor, but still one ploughman with a ladder would have been ample. Soon words floated up to me from the mouth of the leading rescuer. "I'll learn him!" he was saying with fervour. "I'll learn him to come German-spying round my orchard!" Balaam or no Balaam, I drew the line at being assegaied to death as a Teuton spy, so I dropped the cage with a bang and, clinging to the end of my branch, I at last succeeded in gaining the ground in moderate safety. When I had finished explaining about Balaam, they were convinced, though evidently disappointed. "You see," explained the Vicar, prodding the apple-tree regretfully with his assegai, "poor Miss Tittlepatter said that she had been attacked by German spies from this very orchard." At the third prod of the Vicar's assegai, a brown-and-yellow bird flew self-consciously from the top of the apple-tree and perched in full view on a five-barred gate. "There he is!" I hissed, moving stealthily forward with the remains of the birdcage. "There's Balaam the canary!" "Kenary!" contemptuously remarked the rescuer who had been so anxious to undertake the education of Teutonic spies. "That ain't no kenary; that's a bloomin' yellow'ammer!" * * * When, a dishevelled wreck, I reached my own gateway, I was met in the drive by Eileen. "It's all right after all," she remarked cheerfully. "The stupid bird was on the curtain pole all the time. So lucky, because, if he _had_ got out, it would have meant an awful bother. And, I say, is it true that they've caught a German spy down in the village?" * * * * * Illustration: _Salesman._ "NO, SIR, NEITHER OF THESE MASKS WAS MADE IN GERMANY."