I gathered that George was in the best of health and in America, was unmarried and umpired out in a recent baseball match and wanted----" ["A dozen stamps, please." This from me.] a photograph of the old people and his brothers and sisters. From this the transition was easy to an uncle of the post-mistress's who went----" ["A dozen stamps."]--to foreign parts. He always was a rolling stone, he was. Never gathered no moss. On the other hand, there were no flies on him. Did very well for himself, he did, and when he died----" But it was at this point that the moisture from the margarine cask against which I had been leaning began to make its presence felt, and, stampless, I left the shop. At the edge of the village I met our policeman. "Go quickly," I implored him; "there's a hold-up at the post-office." Perhaps "quickly" is not quite the right word, but, at any rate, he went. I doubt if he will get promotion over the job, but I am sure he too will like to hear about our George, if there's anything left to say by the time he gets there. * * * * * SOMETIMES. Some days are fairy days. The minute that you wake You have a magic feeling that you never could mistake; You may not see the fairies, but you know they're all about, And any single minute they might all come popping out; You want to laugh, you want to sing, you want to dance and run, Everything is different, everything is fun; The sky is full of fairy clouds, the streets are fairy ways-- _Anything_ might happen on truly fairy days. Some nights are fairy nights. Before you go to bed You hear their darling music go chiming in your head; You look into the garden and through the misty grey You see the trees all waiting in a breathless kind of way. All the stars are smiling; they know that very soon The fairies will come singing from the land behind the moon. If only you could keep awake when Nurse puts out the light . . . _Anything_ might happen on a truly fairy night. R. F. * * * * * "CRICKET. Little Snoring Ladies _v._ Little Snoring Lads."--_Local Paper._ This match was played in Norfolk and not, as you might have expected, in Beds. * * * * * [Illustration: THE BROTHERHOOD OF MUSIC.] * * * * * [Illustration: A CAST. _Ghillie._ "AY, SIR, THE FUSHERS ARE NO WHAT THEY WERE. YE'LL MAYBE NO BELIEVE ME, BUT THERE WAS A MAN HERE LAST MONTH THAT HAD NAETHING BUT A SUP O' COLD TEA IN HIS FLASK TO WET A FUSH WHEN HE CAUGHT YIN!"] * * * * * THE PARADISE OF BARDS. (_From an Oxford Correspondent._)