(_In one of the recent Intervals of Sunshine._)
O passer-by, I prithee hark to me!
You wonder, maybe, why my eyelids glisten
With clinging dewy teardrops, salt as sea.
I'll tell the story of my sadness. Listen!
The Arctic cold we've had so much of late
Made every fibre of my body quiver;
I struggled hard against relentless fate,
Then I decided I would no more shiver.
And that's just it. My grief now knows no bounds;
It crushes me; I don't know how to bear it.
I bought a new fur coat for fifteen pounds,
And now it's got so hot I cannot wear it!
* * * * *
QUEER QUERIES.--DAMP AND DEPRESSION.--I see that they have discovered
a "Marsh Village" near Glastonbury. Would it be of any use to write to
the Society of Antiquaries and tell them about _our_ village, and ask
them to come and inspect it? I don't think anything could well be much
marshier. Even the ducks here suffer badly from rheumatism (which they
don't try to suppress). We live all the year round on deep clay, and
just at present on charity. The one thing that Soke-in-the-Mire never
sees is dust. But it would gladly see the antiquaries, who would
impart a much-needed stimulus to local trade, and could be well housed
at the village inn, which is kept by my brother-in-law, so I know it
to be a good one.