m
say with confidence what exactly he will be to-morrow; but he can
be fairly certain that it won't be a fresh herring. Of our three
survivors Rupert alone was to win the coveted distinction. He grew
to be a fine boy and was eaten at Hammersmith, where his plump but
delicate roe gave the greatest satisfaction. It was not eaten in the
ordinary humdrum way, but was thickly spread on a piece of buttered
toast, generously peppered, and _devoured_. And when his "wish" was
placed on the kitchen-range, swelled rapidly and burst with a loud
report, his cup of happiness was full.

Little Foch, alas, failed to fulfil his youthful promise and became a
common bloater. Worse than that, he was bloated too thoroughly and was
almost impossible to eat. Even his lovely roe, the pride of his heart,
became so salt that the Rector of Chitlings finally rejected it with
ignominy, though not before he had consumed so much of it that he had
to drink the whole of his sermon-water before he began to preach.

But it was Walter, Walter the chronicler, Walter the clever, the
daring, the ambitious, leader in every escapade, adviser in every
difficulty, who was to suffer the crowning humiliation. Walter became
a kipper. If there is one thing that a herring cannot stand it is to
be separated from his roe. Walter's roe was ruthlessly torn from him
and served up separate on toast, with nothing to show that it was
the glorious roe of Walter. It was eaten at the Criterion by a
stockbroker, and it might have been anybody's roe. Meanwhile the
mutilated frame, the empty shell of Walter, was squashed flat in a
wooden box with a mass of others and sold at an auction by the pound.
It broke his heart.

A.P.H.

* * * * *

FLOWERS' NAMES.

LADY'S SLIPPER.

Country gossips, nodding slow
When the fire is burning low,
Or chatting round about the well
On the green at Ashlins Dell,
With many a timid backward glance
And fingers crossed and eyes askance,
Still tell about the Midmas Day
When Marget Malherb went away.

"After Midmas Day shall break,
Maidens, neither brew nor bake;
See your house be sanded clean;
Wear no stitch of fairy green;
Go barefoot; wear nor hose nor shoon
From rise of sun to rise of moon;
For the Good People watch and wait
Waiting early, watching late,
For foolish maids who treat with scorn
The mystic rites of Midmas Morn."

Marget Malherb tossed her head,