"Yes," she said, "but it's so cheerful. If certain newspapers got hold of it there wouldn't be any peace for Second-Lieutenant Walter Carlyon. He'd be told he was like all other Englishmen--he didn't take a serious view of the War. Then they'd say that he was one of the men who were responsible for the French not understanding us, and for the Russians failing to appreciate our efforts, which, indeed, could hardly be called efforts at all, and for the Italians despising us as we deserved to be despised for tolerating such a Government as we were afflicted with--and lots more of the same sort, all because poor Walter doesn't go about in a state of perpetual gloom, as if he expected the whole of Great Britain to be sunk into the sea the next minute." "Francesca," I said, "your warmth is excusable, and there's a good deal in what you say, but I shall show Walter's letter all the same." "Well," she said, "when the storm bursts I shall let him know whom he's got to thank for it." "I shall write to him," I said, "and warn him to write a really pessimistic letter next time, so that I may show it to influential people and get his name up." "It'll be no good," she said. "Walter isn't one of that sort. He 's cursed with a profound and unreasoning belief in his country, and, being an Englishman, he'll go to his grave if necessary believing that England is bound to win the War." "And, by Jove," I said, "I thoroughly agree with him." "Yes," she said, "and so do I, but it doesn't do to say so to everybody nowadays." R. C. L. * * * * * SPEED THE PLOUGH: A COUNTRY SONG. As I was a-walking on Chilbolton Down I saw an old farmer there driving to town, A-jogging to market behind his old grey, So I jumped up beside him, and thus he did say:-- "My boy he be fightin', a fine strappin' lad, I gave he to England, the one boy I had; My boy he be fightin' out over the foam, An' here be I frettin' an' mopin' at home. "But if there be times when 'tis just about hard Wi'out his strong arm in the field an' the yard, Why, I plucks my old heart up an' flicks the old grey, An' this is the tune that her heels seem to say:-- "'Oh the hoof an' the horn, the roots an' the corn, The flock in the fold an' the pigs in the pen, Rye-grass an' clover an' barns brimmin' over, They feed the KING'S horses an' feed the KING'S men!' "Then I looks at my furrows to see the corn spring Like little green sword-blades all drawn for the KING; An' 'tis 'Get up, old Bess, there be plenty to do For old chaps like me an' old horses like you. "'My boy be in Flanders, he's young an' he's bold, But they will not have we, lass, for we be too old, So step it out lively an' kip up your heart, For you an' me, Bess, be a-doin' our part--