ver is
a sign of intellect and culture, and all the great poets were martyrs
to it. That is why none of them grew very lyrical about hay. Corn
excited them a good deal, and even straw, but hay hardly ever.

So the student must finish this poem as best he can, and I shall be
glad to consider and criticise what he does, though I may say at
once that there will be no prize. It ought to go on for another eight
verses or so, though that is not essential in these days, for if it
simply won't go on it can just stop in the middle. Only then it must
be headed "MUD: A Fragment."

And in any case, in the bottom left-hand corner, the student must
write: _Chintonbury, May 28th, 1920._

A. P. H.

* * * * *

[Illustration: MANNERS AND MODES.

WHAT OUR PROFITEER'S BUTLER (WHO WAS TAKEN ON WITH THE HOUSE AND
FURNITURE) HAS TO PUT UP WITH:--MASTER'S RELATIONS.]

* * * * *

ELIZABETH'S TIP FOR THE DERBY.

"Talkin' o' the Derby," began Elizabeth.

As a matter of fact I was not talking of the Derby or even thinking of
it at the moment. I had just been telling Elizabeth that the omelette
which she had served us at dinner was leathery, and her remark struck
me as irrelevant.

"Master thinks the omelettes would be lighter if you fried them in
more butter," I continued. Of course Master had thought nothing of the
kind. But nowadays complaints must be conveyed to domestics in this
indirect way.

Elizabeth ignored the omelette. "I'm goin' to win fifty pounds at
least," she exclaimed, and in her excitement broke the cup she held--I
mean to say the cup came in two in her hand as she spoke. "I've got a
bit on an 'orse for the Derby."

I felt slightly shocked. It is always surprising to discover a latent
sporting instinct in one's domestics, unless they are highly placed
and dignified domestics like butlers or head-footmen; but in a
cook-general it seems peculiarly low.

"I shouldn't bet if I were you," I advised; "I think--er--_Master_
thinks," I added involuntarily--"that you might lose money at it."

"But I'm goin' to _win_ money this time," announced Elizabeth
triumphantly; "my young man ses so, and 'e knows."

"Which young man?" I inquired.

Elizabeth, I ought perhaps to explain, is uncertain about her young
men. She never has any lack of them; but they are like ships that pass
in the night (her night out as a rule) and one by one they drift off,
never stopping