“By will, dated 7th July, 1795, Mrs. Jane Shank directed that the Painter-stainers’ Company should divide the interest on her fortune into twelve equal parts, and shall apply eleven-twelfth parts thereof in payment of pensions of £10 a year, to indigent blind women, and retain the remaining twelfth part as a compensation for their trouble and expenses. Jane Shank requested that the Company would advertise for proper objects of the charity in two morning and two evening papers, three times each, as often as any vacancies should happen; and she directed that the persons to be elected should be of the age of 61 years at the least, should have been blind three years, should be widows or unmarried, and unable to maintain themselves by any employment, should be in distressed circumstances, born in England, not in Wales or Ireland, have lived three years in their present parish, have no income for life above £10 a year, never having received alms of any parish or place, never having been a common beggar, and being of sober life and conversation.” Jane, you see, was a forerunner of Sir Arthur Pearson of St. Dunstan’s, who would, I am sure, have no difficulty in recommending a suitable destination for any spare funds of your own. But I must not weary you (or myself) with these testaments. Here is a story that was told by my friend, Mrs. Torwood Leigh. Towards the end of the War she gave a party to an Officers’ mess stationed in the neighbourhood, and almost every guest exceeded. The next day, when they called to return thanks, each one in turn took her aside to apologize—for another! And here is the poem: something lighter for a change:— I recollect a nurse called Ann Who carried me about the grass, And one fine day a fair young man Came up and kissed the pretty lass. She did not make the least objection, Thinks I “Ha ha! When I’m grown up I’ll tell mamma.” And that’s my earliest recollection. That is a poem by a man pretending to infancy. Here is a genuine child-product, one of the lyrics of a little American girl named Hilda Conklin. Don’t you think it rather beautiful? WATER The world turns softly Not to spill its lakes and rivers, The water is held in its arms And the sky is held in the water. What is water, That pours silver, And can hold the sky? Good night, R. H. CXIII VERENA RABY TO NICHOLAS DEVOSE DEAR,—They are beautiful, and so like you. I shall set them up daily, one by one, as you wish—and it is a charming idea and will make the nights so exciting, for some one else will choose them for me and it will be all a surprise! But I had to go through the whole sixty first. How could I wait? Why, I might die!