* * * * * A YEAR'S REPRISALS. When I sent Aunt Emily--from whom I have expectations--a pincushion at Christmas and she retaliated with a pen-wiper on New Year's Day, I thought that was the end of it. Not so. Aunt Emily reopened hostilities on my birthday with a purple satin letter-case embroidered with a sprig of rosemary and the word "Remembrance." That fresh offensive occurred on January 27th, which, I repeat, is my birthday. Readers please note. When was Aunt Emily's birthday? Frenzied search in antique birthday books revealed not the horrid secret. Probing my diary for other suitable anniversaries, I came to February 1st--"Partridge and Pheasant Shooting ends." I passed this as being inappropriate, and then--the very thing--February 14th, St. Valentine's. Also Full Moon. To arrive on that day, I despatched, carefully packed, the white marble clock from the spare-room. When well shaken it will tick for an hour. Aunt Emily had never seen it, I knew. Then I sounded the All Clear. But on Easter Eve a heavy packing-case was bumped onto my doorstep. From wrappings of sacking there emerged a large model of Eddystone lighthouse; a thermometer was embedded in its chest, minus the mercury, I noted. And Aunt Emily wished me as per enclosed card "A joyous Easter." With groans and lamentations another anniversary must be found by me. Ah! Here we have it! KING GEOKGE V. born June 3rd. On the dark roof of my spare-room wardrobe loomed an Indian vase--bright yellow with red blobs--very rare and very hideous, with a bulge in its middle. Obviously unique, because when the Indian made it his fellow-Indians slew him to prevent repetitions of the offence. I packed it in the middle of a crate and much straw, calculated to make an appalling mess when released. To dear Aunt Emily it went, with love, and a few topical remarks about the Monarchy. But Aunt Emily evidently had a diary too. On the 21st of October--anniversary of Trafalgar--my heart sank as the railway delivery van drew up at my door. The angry driver toiled into my passage with a packing-case (bristling with splinters and nails). When it was open and the chisel broken I picked the splinters out of my fingers and contemplated the battered horn of a gramophone emerging from sawdust and shavings. The mess created was indescribable when the horn was drawn forth. Shavings flew everywhere. The sawdust was like a butcher's shop. There were records too, some broken, all scratched. When set going it made a noise like a cockatoo with a cold. Decently covered with a cloth it was interned in the loft. Next please. One more effort and I should be one up and Aunt Emily to play. And her turn would be Christmas. Once she sent me five pounds at Christmas. The diary again. A poor hatch of anniversaries for November. A partial eclipse of the moon, partially visible at Greenwich, was down for the 22nd. But eclipses are too ominous.