"Francesca," I said, "listen to this."
"I will," she said, "if it's worth listening to."
"You can't tell that till you've heard it, can you?"
"Well, what is it, anyhow?"
"It's a letter," I said, "from Harry Penruddock."
"That doesn't sound very exciting."
"Ah, but wait a bit."
"Well, get a move on. I've got to see the cook."
"He sends me," I said, "a notice which has been served upon him about his cottage at Smoltham. He wants to have my opinion about it."
"Very well, give him your opinion, and let's get on with the War."
"Francesca," I said, "are you not more than a little peevish this morning?"
"I have no patience," she said, "with notices that have to be served. It's always done by sanitary inspectors and rate collectors, and people of that sort. Why can't they just post them and have done with it?"
"Who are you," I said, "that you should fly in the face of Providence in this way? Can't you see that if a notice is 'served,' it immediately becomes twice as important?"
"Oh, if it adds to the dignity of an inspector, well and good; but for my part I should have posted it."
"You are not a sanitary inspector, and cannot realise the feelings of one."
"They have no feelings, and that's why they're made inspectors."
"Hush!" I said, and began to read:—
"'In pursuance of the directions given in an Act passed in the fifth and sixth years of the reign of King William the Fourth, entitled "An Act to consolidate and amend the Laws relating to Highways in that part of Great Britain called England," I, T. Bradish, of the Town Hall, Smoltham, do hereby give you notice forthwith to cut, prune, plash or lop certain Trees and Hedges overhanging the highway immediately adjoining your premises, No. 15, East Gate, in the Parish of Smoltham, and which are causing an obstruction and annoyance to the said highway, so that the obstructions caused to the said highway shall be removed.
"'Dated this 19th day of October, 1917.'"
"Isn't it priceless?" I said.
"It is," said Francesca. "I never knew before that a road could be annoyed."
"Even a road has its feelings."
"Yes, perhaps it's a short lane, and everybody tramples on it, and it turns at last."
"So do borough engineers and surveyors, it seems."
"I bet this one's a Tartar."
"How can you tell that?"
"I can tell it by his style, which is very severe and uncompromising."
"His style," I said, "is as the statute made it, and mustn't be impugned by us."
"I particularly like that bit about plashing the trees. How in the name of all that's English do you plash a tree?"
"If," I said, "you were a fountain and wanted to be poetical, you would plash, instead of splashing."
"That's nonsense," she said.
"No," I said, "it's poetry."
"But you don't pour poetry on overhanging trees. It must mean something else."
"I'll tell you what; we'll get a dictionary."
"Yes," she said, "you get it. I'm no good at dictionaries. I always find such a lot of fascinating words that I never get to the one I want."
"I'm rather like that myself," I said. "However I'll exercise self-restraint. Here you are: Packthread, Pastime, Pin—there's a lot about Pin—Plash. Got it! It means 'to bend down and interweave the branches or twigs of.'"
"Now," she said, "we know what Mr. Bradish wants."
"He's a very arbitrary man," I said. "How can he expect Harry Penruddock to bend down and interweave the branches or twigs of?"
"Anyway, Harry's got to do it, whether he understands it or not."
"Yes," I said, "borough surveyors take no denials. And now that you've had your lesson in English, you can go and see the cook."
"Half a mo'," she said; "I'm acquiring a lot of useful information about 'Plaster.' I never knew—"
"Hurry up," I said, "or we shan't get any lunch."
R.C.L.
DERELICT.
(Notices to Mariners. North Atlantic Ocean. Derelict reported.)
"We left 'er 'eaded for Lord knows where, in latitude forty-nine,
With a cargo o' deals from Puget Sound, an' 'er bows blown out by a mine;
I seen 'er just as the dark come down—I seen 'er floatin' still,
An' I 'ope them deals'd let her sink afore so long," said Bill.
"It warn't no use to stand by 'er—she could neither sail nor steer—
With the biggest part of a thousand mile between 'er and Cape Clear;
The sea was up to 'er waterways an' gainin' fast below,
But I'd like to know she went to 'er rest as a ship's a right to go.
"For it's bitter 'ard on a decent ship, look at it 'ow you may,
That's worked her traverse an' stood 'er trick an' done 'er best in 'er day,
To be driftin' around like a nine-days-drowned on the Western Ocean swell,
With never a hand to reef an' furl an' steer an' strike the bell.
"No one to tend 'er binnacle lamps an' light 'er masthead light,
Or scour 'er plankin' or scrape 'er seams when the days are sunny an' bright;
No one to sit on the hatch an' yarn an' smoke when work is done,
An' say, 'That gear wants reevin' new some fine dogwatch, my son.'
"No one to stand by tack an' sheet when it's comin' on to blow;
Never the roar of 'Rio Grande' to the watch's stamp-an'-go;
An' the seagulls settin' along the rail an' callin' the long day through,
Like the souls of old dead sailor-men as used to be 'er crew.
"Never a port of all 'er ports for 'er to fetch again,
Nothin' only the sea an' the sky, the sun, the wind an' the rain;
It's cruel 'ard on a decent ship, an' so I tell you true,
An' I wish I knew she 'ad gone to 'er rest as a good ship ought to do."
C.F.S.
Mabel. "WHAT SORT OF A DANCE WAS IT LAST NIGHT? HOW DID YOU GET ON?"
Gladys. "OH, ALL RIGHT. I WAS UP TO MY KNEES IN BOYS ALL THE EVENING."
