I was up to me eers in work—it being wash day. As I carried the clothes out to be hung I noted the following: Mr. John was walking up and down taking triminjus long stips back and forth over the back lon. Wid the tales of his coat flying out behind him and his spickticles hanging by a string from his eer he looked so like a loonytick that I drapped me baskit of clothes. “My God, Mr. John” I exclaimed involuntarararily “Are you sun struck. Whats the trubble” ses I, and I stopped him in his mad careerer as Mr. James wud call it by grabbing him by his cote tales. He turned about, looks at me wid wild eyes and ses horsely: “Twinty-two and a harf—twinty-two and a—Bother the girl!” ses he interrupting himsilf, “Are you crazy? Let go me cote tales.” I releesed him. Ses he irrytibly: “Can’t you see I’m bizzy? I’m meshuring off me vigitible garden” and wid that he starts marching over the same line agin. “My God, Mr. John!” ses I “are you using yur legs for a meshure?” But he herd me not. I toar me horryfied eyes away frum the madman, and just then I seen Mr. James. He was standing also on the lon, neerer the frunt of the house. He’s leening on the lon mower, and if ever I seen dispare in human eyes it was in those orbs of Mr. James. I wint to him wid me hart full of sympathy for the lad. “Whats ailing you Mr. James?” I arsks. [Illustration: “‘Mr. John,’ I exclamed involuntarararily, ‘are you sun struck? What’s the trubble?’ ses I.” ] “The lons!” ses he. “You will obsarve Delia, that I’m commincing me tax at the beginning of the week, for I am firmly convinsed no human arm cood cut those lons in less than sivin days.” “Why don’t you get a dago, Mr. James” ses I. “Sh!” ses Mr. James, guving me arm a shuv. “Spake lowly Delia. Ob-sarve” and he poynted acrost the lons. There aginst the finse which divides our place from a grate estate was Miss Claire hersilf _digging_. She had a little red gingum aprun over her dress and the slaves was rolled oop to the ilbos. On her hed was the strangest looking site of a hat. I reckynised it wid horrer. It wuz a Spanish monsterosity Mr. James brot back wid him that time he wint to Pannyma to expose the Prissydint. Until this day Miss Claire had yused it for a waste paper barsket in her room, tying it in a boonch wid ribbon and hanging it artisticully upon the wall. Now she woar it on her hed! Joost thin she looked up from her digging and seen me. “Now Delia” ses she “don’t be bothering Jimmy. Hes got lots to do. We _all_ have” she adds swately. “What be you doing Miss Claire?” arsks I, going over to her, and looking wid suspisshon at the hole she’s after diggin. “My God Miss” ses I “it looks like a grave.”