ud
and piteous howl. I asked him where his pain was, and he replied that
he wanted some holly for decorations, but was too short to reach it.
I thereupon swarmed the shrub, plucked and tossed the richly berried
boughs to the poor little chap. In return he showed me where I
lived--which indeed was not two hundred yards distant, but concealed
by the thicket.

Later in the day Edward came in to tea, much annoyed. Bolshevism, he
declared, was within our gates. He had been out to collect Christmas
decorations in his own private fenced spinney, and confound it if some
scoundrels hadn't been and gone and stripped his pet holly-tree of
every twig! Anarchy was yapping at the door.

The Aunt soothed him, saying she had that very afternoon purchased a
supply of splendid holly from a sweet little boy who had come round
hawking it at sixpence a bough. I asked her if by any chance the dear
little fellow had worn a red woollen comforter, and was not surprised
when I heard that he had.

No sooner had I fallen asleep that same night than I was aroused by
an extraordinary din. I lay there, comatose and semi-conscious in
the pitchy darkness, and wondered what had happened. Presently I
distinguished the bray of trumps, and I knew. "Golly!" I whispered to
myself, "I'm dead. Cheer-o!" Then I recollected something I had read
concerning ye sports and customs of ye Ancient British and decided
it must be "Waits." I crept to the window and by a glow of lanterns
beheld the St. Gwithian Independent Brass Band grouped round the
porch, blasting "Christians, awake!" through their brazen fog-horns.
I fumbled about on the dressing-table, missed the matches but found a
half-crown. "Take that and trot!" I snarled, hurling it at them with
all my strength. The coin hit the trombone a glancing blow on the
snout, ricochetted off the bassoon and bounded into the rockery.

The music stopped abruptly as the bandsmen swarmed in pursuit of
fortune. In half-an-hour's time they had pulled all Edward's cherished
sedums and saxifrages up by the roots and turned over most of the
smaller rocks without discovering the treasure. A conference in loud
idiomatic Cornish then took place, with the result that two musicians
were despatched to a neighbouring farm for picks, crow-bars and more
lanterns; the remainder squatted on the flower-beds and whiled away
the time of waiting by blasting "Good King Wenceslas" to the patient
stars.

In due course the messengers returned