"Subject: 'A RENEWED WORLD--No Sorrow. No Pain. No Death.' No
Collection."--_Local Paper._
The last item sounds almost too good to be true.
* * * * *
"The proposed changes were discussed with the captain of the
England side and one or two prominent crickets who had visited
Australia."--_Expensive Daily Paper._
Hitherto it had been supposed that these cheerful little creatures
only sought the kind of "ashes" that you get on the domestic hearth.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "WE AIN'T A BIT AFRAID, ALFY 'IGGINS. YER OWN FICE IS A
LUMP UGLIER."]
* * * * *
=A STRIKE IN FAIRYLAND.=
The fairies were holding a meeting.
"They grumble when we send the rain," said a Rain-fairy, "and they
grumble when we don't."
"And we get no thanks," sighed a Flower-fairy. "The time we spend
getting the flowers ready and washing their faces and folding them up
every night!"
"As for the stars," said a Star-fairy, "we might just as well leave
them unlit for all the gratitude we get, and it's such a rush
sometimes to get all over the sky in time. They don't even believe in
us. We wouldn't mind _anything_ if they believed in us."
"No," agreed a Rainbow-fairy, "that's true. I take such a lot of
trouble to get just the right colours, and it has to be done so
quickly. But I wouldn't mind if they believed in us."
"I wonder what _they_'d do," said the Queen, "if no one believed in
them?"
"They'd go on strike," said the Brown Owl (he was head of the Ministry
of Wisdom). "They always go on strike if they don't like anything."
"Then we'll go on strike," said the Queen with great determination.
They all cheered, except the Flower-fairies.
"But the flowers," they said, "they'll get so dusty with no one to
wash them, and so tired with no one to fold them up at nights."
"I hadn't thought of that," said the Queen. "When _they_ go on
strike," she said to the Brown Owl, "how do things get done?"
The Brown Owl considered for a moment and everyone waited in silence.
"Of course there are sometimes blacklegs," he began.
"I don't know what blacklegs are," said the Queen cheerfully, "but
we'll appoint some." And she did.
"Is that all?" said the Queen.
"Someone ought to have a sympathetic strike with us," said the Brown
Owl. "_They_ always do that."
So a fairy was sent off to the Court of the Birds to request a
sympathetic strike.
"Is _that_ all?" said the Queen.
"You ought to _talk_ more," said the Brown Owl. "_They_ talk ever so
much."
"Yes, but they can't help it, can they?" said the Queen kindly.
And so the strike began that evening.
None of the birds sang except one little blackleg Robin, who sang so
hard in his efforts to make up for the rest that he was as hoarse as a
crow the next morning. The blackleg fairies had a hard time too. They
hadn't a minute to gossip with the flowers, as they usually did when
they flew round with their acorn-cups of dew and thistledown sponges
and washed their faces and folded up their petals and kissed them
good-night.
"But what's the matter?" said the flowers sleepily.
"We're on strike," said one of the other fairies importantly "not for
ourselves, but for posterity."
The Brown Owl had heard _them_ say that.
Meanwhile the rest of the fairies sat silent and rather mournful,
awaiting developments.
Then a Thought-fairy flew in. Thought-fairies can see into your heart
and know just what you think. They get terrible shocks sometimes.
"I've been all over the world," she said breathlessly, "and it's much
better than you think. _All_ little girls believe in us and--" She
paused dramatically.
"Yes?" they said eagerly.
"All fathers of little girls believe in us."
The Queen shook her head.
"They only pretend," she said.
"No, that's just it," said the Thought-fairy. "They _pretend_ to
pretend. They never tell anyone, but they really believe."
"Then we'll end the strike," said the Queen.
Here the Brown Owl bustled in, carrying a little note-book.
"I've found out lots more," he said excitedly. "We must have an
executive and delegates and a ballot and a union and a Sankey
Commission report and a scale of the cost of living and a datum line
and--"
"But the strike's over," said the Queen. "It was a misunderstanding."
"Of course," he said huffily. "All strikes are that, but it's correct
to carry them on as long as possible."
"And the blacklegs are to have a special reward."
"That's illogical," muttered the Brown Owl.
He was right, of course, but things _are_ illogical in Fairyland.
That's the nicest part of it.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Salesman_. "IT IS POSSIBLE THAT IT MAY INTEREST YOU
TO KNOW THAT OUR CAR WAS DRIVEN UP ALL THE FLIGHTS OF STEPS AT THE
CRYSTAL PALACE."
_Inquiring Visitor_. "WELL--ER--NOT MUCH. YOU SEE, I LIVE IN A
BUNGALOW."]
* * * * *
"Fears are entertained that the chalice, which is of silver-gilt,
may have been broken up and investments profaned."--_Daily
Herald._
We should have thought that our Communistic contemporary was the last
paper that would have considered investments sacred.
* * * * *
"K. T. B---- and T. W. H----, both of Liverpool, who were in
company with Mr. L---- in the car, agreed that the speed was about
fifty-one miles an hour. On the gradient and at the turn it was
not safe to travel faster."--_Provincial Paper._
One of those examples of "Safety First" which we are always pleased to
chronicle.
* * * * *
=THE OPENING RUN.=
The rain-sodden grass in the ditches is dying;
The berries are red to the crest of the thorn;
Coronet-deep where the beech-leaves are lying
The hunters stand tense to the twang of the horn;
Where rides are refilled with the green of the mosses,
All foam-flecked and fretful their long line is strung;
You can see the white gleam as a starred forehead tosses,
You can hear the low chink as a bit-bar is flung.
The world's full of music. Hounds rustle the rover
Through brushwood and fern to a glad "Gone away!"
With a "Come along, Pilot!"--one spur-touch and over--
The huntsman is clear on his galloping grey;
Before him the pack's running straight on the stubble--
"_Toot-toot-too-too-too-oot!_" "_Tow-row-ow-ow-ow!_"
The leaders are clambering up through the double
And glittering away on the brown of the plough.
The front rank, hands down, have the big fence's measure;
The faint-hearts are craning to left and to right;
The Master goes through with a crash on "The Treasure;"
The grey takes the lot like a gull in his flight;
There's a brown crumpled up, lying still as a dead one;
There's a roan mare refusing, as stubborn as sin;
While the breaker flogs up on a green underbred one
And smashes the far-away rail with a grin.
The chase carries on over hilltop and hollow,
The life of Old England, the pluck and the fun;
And who would ask more than a stiff line to follow
With hounds running hard in the Opening Run?