We saw the diving birds being fed in their tank. There are two of them, one in a cage at each end, and the keeper throws little live fish into the tank and lets out one bird at a time. At first we were very sorry for the poor little fish, which swim about frantically in all directions to escape from the terrible great bird who dashes after them like a cruel submarine; but after a while we began to want the bird not to miss any. Isn’t that funny? And my brother Jack got so excited that he pointed out to the bird where one of the little fish was hiding and cried out “Here he is, look, down here! Look, in the corner!” “CONVOLVULUS” A FABLE There was once a garden path paved with flat stones, and in between the stones were little tufts of thyme and other herbs. On each side of the path were beds full of gay flowers, among which was a very vain geranium, who, when no one was about, used to mock the thyme because it was in such an exposed spot and liable to be walked on. “The proper place for plants,” the geranium said, “is in a bed where they are safe from people’s feet and are treated with respect. Look at me!” “Yes,” said the thyme, “but the more I am trampled on the sweeter I become and the more the lady who planted me likes me. Haven’t you seen her squeezing me with her beautiful hands and then inhaling my fragrance, whereas if anything hits you you are done for for ever.” And at that moment a tennis ball, struck out of the court near by, fell on the geranium and broke it in two. The moral is that every one has his own place in life and we should mind our own business. “CARNATION” CORRESPONDENCE I _To the Editor of THE BEGUILER_ DEAR MADAM,—You ask me to tell you what is the most depressing thing I ever heard. It was this. I was crossing the Channel on a rough day, feeling more miserable than I can describe and clinging to my deck-chair because I knew that to move would be fatal, when two young men passed me, in rude health and spirits, both smoking large pipes, and I heard one say, “Personally, I’ve got no use for a smooth sea.” I can conceive of nothing more offensively depressing than this. Hoping you can find a place for the “anecdote” in your bright little periodical,—I am yours faithfully, HECTOR BARRANCE II _To the Editor of THE BEGUILER_ DEAR MADAM,—I am glad to hear that you approved of my contribution to your last number. Being still unable to write, I again send you something copied from the works of another. It is a poem by Joyce Kilmer, a young American killed in the war. Believe me, your admiring subscriber, RICHARD HAVEN X His mark TREES I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.