"Haven't you both," I said, "done about enough? Talk about mufflers! In my day a muffler was something a man wore round his neck; but your mufflers would serve to clothe a whole platoon from head to heel with something left over. Benevolence is all very well, but you shouldn't overdo it. There isn't a soldier alive who wouldn't trip over your mufflers. Think of him tripped up by a muffler and caught by a German." "Lady FRENCH," said Helen, "wrote in her letter to _The Times_ that every muffler was to be two yards and a half long and twelve inches broad." "Well," I said, "you've got the breadth all right." "Yes," said Helen, "we got that in the first line, and we've never let go of it since. Anybody could get the breadth. _You_ could do that if you tried." "Graceless child," I said, "you don't seem to be aware that in my earliest boyhood I once began to knit a sock." "But you didn't finish it," said Helen. "I know that story." "Fathers," said Rosie, "could knit very well if they tried, but they won't try." "Come," I said, "I won't compete with you in knitting, but I'm game to bet you've done seven feet six inches in length already." "All right," said Helen, "we'll bet a penny. Only remember, mine was only six feet yesterday and Rosie's was four inches shorter." I spread the fabrics on the floor and set to work with a tape measure. The first result was, Helen five feet eleven inches; Rosie five feet six inches. "This," I said, "is maddening. You are imitating Penelope." "I don't know about Penelope," said Helen, "but you haven't straightened them out enough." I smoothed them out carefully and measured again. This time the result was, Helen six feet two inches; Rosie five feet ten inches. "Capital!" I said; "I will do some more smoothing." "No," said Helen, "that won't be fair to Lady FRENCH or our soldiers. We must give them an inch or so over, if anything;" and they picked up the unfinished mufflers and set to work at them with renewed energy. * * * This was four days ago. Now both the mufflers are gloriously finished and ready to be despatched. When our two soldiers wear them we hope they will feel that there is a little magic in them as well as a great deal of warmth. There is love knitted into them and admiration and gratitude, and there are quiet thoughts of beautiful English country-sides and happy homes which our soldiers are helping to guard for us, though they are far away. R. C. L. * * * * * THE LOST SEASON. (_A Point of View._) Farewell to the stretches of pasture and plough And the flicker of sterns through the gorse on the hill, And the mulberry coats there, alone with them now, To cheer as they're finding and whoop at the kill; Farewell to the vale and the woodland forlorn, To the fox in his earth and the hound on his bench; Unheard is the pack and unheeded the horn, So loud and so near are the bugles of FRENCH.