Upon a certain evening, at the conclusion of one sit-round game which involved abrupt music, a barrier of chairs, and the exhilarating possibility of being sat upon by the young and vivacious in their zeal, a person of the company turned suddenly to the one who is communicating with you and said enticingly, “Why did Birdcage Walk?” Not judging from his expression that this was other than a polite inquiry on a matter which disturbed his repose, I was replying that the manifestation was undoubtedly the work of a vexatious demon which had taken up its abode in the article referred to, when another, by my side, cried aloud, “Because it envied Queen Anne’s Gate”; and without a pause cast back the question, “Who carved The Poultry?” In spite of the apparent simplicity of the demand it was received by all in an attitude of complicated doubt, and this person was considering whether he might not acquire distinction by replying that such an office fell by custom to the lot of the more austere Maiden Blank, when the very inadequate reply, “Mark Lane with St. Mary’s Axe,” was received with applause and some observations in a half-tone regarding the identity of the fowl. By the laws of the sit-round games the one who had last spoken now proclaimed himself, demanding to know, “Why did Battersea Rise?” but the involvement was evidently superficial, for the maiden at whose memory this one’s organs still vibrate ignobly at once replied, “Because it thought Clapham Common,” in turn inquiring, “What made the Marble Arch?” Although I would have willingly sacrificed to an indefinite extent to be furnished with the preconcerted watchword, so that I might have enlarged myself in the eyes of this consecrated being’s unapproachable esteem, I had already decided that the competition was too intangible for one whose thoughts lay in well-defined parallel lines, and it fell to another to reply, “To hear Salisbury Court.” This, O my broad-minded ancestor of the first degree--an aimless challenge coupled with the name of one recognisable spot, replied to by the haphazard retort of another place, frequently in no way joined to it, was regarded as an exceptionally fascinating sit-round game by a company of elderly barbarians! “What couldn’t Walbrook?” it might be, and “Such Cheapside,” would be deemed a praiseworthy solution. “When did King’s Bench Walk?” would be asked, and to reply, “When Gray’s Inn Road,” covered the one with overpowering acclamation. “Bevis Marks only an Inner Circle at The Butts; why?” was a demand of such elaborate complexity that (although this person was lured out of his self-imposed restraint by the silence of all round, and submerging his intelligence to an acquired level, unobtrusively suggested, “Because Aylesbury ducks, perchance”) it fell to the one propounding to announce, “Because St. John’s Wood Shoot-up Hill.”