rugh's voice.

The Red Feathers has not yet been produced, one reason being (perhaps)
that it has never been offered to anybody. It is difficult enough to
find a manager, but when one has also to get hold of a composer, the
business of production becomes terrifying. I suppose there is a way of
negotiating these difficulties, but I suspect that most of the fun to be
got out of this operetta we have already had in writing it.

In conclusion, I must distress my friend J. M. Barrie (who gave me a
first chance) by acknowledging my great debt to him. It would be more
polite to leave him out of it, but I cannot let him off. After all,
these are only "First Plays." I can always hope that "Last Plays" will
be more worthy of that early encouragement.

A. A. MILNE.

WURTZEL-FLUMMERY

A COMEDY IN ONE ACT

CHARACTERS.

ROBERT CRAWSHAW, M.P.
MARGARET CRAWSHAW (his wife).
VIOLA CRAWSHAW (his daughter).
RICHARD MERITON, M.P.
DENIS CLIFTON.

A Two-Act version of this play was produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault at
the New Theatre on April 7, 1917, with the following cast:

Robert Crawshaw--NIGEL PLAYFAIR.
Margaret Crawshaw--HELEN HAYE.
Viola Crawshaw--PEGGY KURTON.
Richard Meriton--MARTIN LEWIS.
Denis Clifton--DION BOUCICAULT.
Lancelot Dodd--BERTRAM SIEMS.

[SCENE.--ROBERT CRAWSHAW'S town house. Morning.]

[It is a June day before the war in the morning-room of ROBERT
CRAWSHAW'S town house. Entering it with our friend the house-agent, our
attention would first be called to the delightful club fender round the
fireplace. On one side of this a Chesterfield sofa comes out at right
angles. In a corner of the sofa MISS VIOLA CRAWSHAW is sitting, deep
in "The Times." The house-agent would hesitate to catalogue her, but
we notice for ourselves, before he points out the comfortable armchair
opposite, that she is young and pretty. In the middle of the room and
facing the fireplace is (observe) a solid knee-hole writing-table,
covered with papers and books of reference, and supported by a chair at
the middle and another at the side. The rest of the furniture, and the
books and pictures round the walls, we must leave until another time,
for at this moment the door behind the sofa opens and RICHARD MERITON
comes in. He looks about thirty-five, has a clean-shaven intelligent
face, and is dressed in a dark tweed suit. We withdraw hastily, as he
comes behind VIOLA and puts h