Ernie’s mother is always finding him in the water. She cannot keep him away. He goes out in a clean jersey, knickers, and socks, and suddenly there is a cry for Ernie, a rushing past the door, a curse from myself, and a loud wail. “You come out of that water, my boy! I told you not to go in that water. Little devil, you,” cries the exasperated mother. “Ah’ll tull feyther,” shrieks Ernie, as he is driven like a porker past the door. His sobs grow less, and a minute later he comes back and stares at me. “I got some good water,” he informs me. “You ain’t got no water, ’ave ee?” And he toddles away for more. He delights in the filthiest old can or bottle. He loves to kneel down and see the water bubbling in. Sometimes it is a “cup of tea” he has got, or a “glass of beer.” And always he has “got this one.” He appears to be wandering about at all hours of the day and night. The life of a recluse in a cottage, remote from ordinary life, has its moments of exaltation, especially in the lovely months of spring and summer, but when the wind sways the leafless trees and whirls the cold rain, it is hard to prevent melancholy. On these occasions I go and have a chat with Ernie’s parents, my immediate neighbours. Often I find Ernie asleep at the table, with his curls in the empty plate. The little imp has been all day in the water, or on a long tour in his motor, and has fallen asleep from exhaustion. He breathes quietly, his mouth droops. “Poor lill chap, he’m be tired,” says Ernie’s father; “dear lill boy, he’m be.” It is always the same tender remark. No wonder Ernie loves his father. But this does not prevent the most savage quarrelling sometimes. Then through the wall I hear him yelling,-- “Dawbake!--dawbake!--dawbake!” And his father’s threat (it never materialises into action), “Naughty boy, swearin’! Ah’ll tell plicemun!” “Dawbake!--dawbake!--dawbake!” yells Ernie. “Ee shouldn’t speak tew ees feyther like that.” “Dawbake!” moans Ernie, and hides his curly head at father’s knees. “Could never whip ee,” mutters the parent, “ee be so little.” “Of course,” I agree, having decided notions about the relation of the big parent to the tiny child. Every day it is the same. Ernie in the water, Ernie covered with mud and jam. Ernie holding out pails, bottles, cans, kettles, and food for me to see. “You ain’t got this one, ’ave ee? I got this one. Ah’ll tell plicemun of ee, Mis’r Wisson, swearin’! I got my wills. You ain’t got no wills. I got the wills.” “Go away, boy!” I shout, as once a schoolmaster used to bellow at me. He departs, but returns with a cup of muddy water. “I got a glass o’ beer. ’Tis mine, it is. Yaas.”