I imagined the shock of this procedure
on a man like my hosier and haberdasher, whose heart was perhaps a
trifle woolly. Had he collapsed? I glanced surreptitiously behind a
parapet of clocked socks.

A moment later, from somewhere in the back premises, he appeared
carrying a large bale of flannel, which he cast caber-wise upon the
counter. I was dumbfounded.

Then I knew the truth.

"Sir," I said, turning to the stranger, "I believe you are about to make
a selection from these articles (I indicated them individually), which
you imagine to be the last of their race?"

He nodded at me in a bewildered sort of way.

"In a few months," I continued remorselessly, "they will be absolutely
unprocurable" (he gave a start of recognition), "and you, having bought
them, will sneak through life with the feelings of a food-hoarder,
mingled with those of the man who slew the last Camberwell Beauty.
I know the state of mind. But you need not distress yourself. These
garments (I indicated them again) will only be unprocurable because they
are in your possession. I have about half-a-ton myself, which, until a
few minutes age, would have been quite unprocurable. But I have changed
my mind and, if you will come with me, you can take your choice with
a clear conscience, and (I glanced maliciously at my faded hosier and
haberdasher) at the prices which were prevalent a year ago."

I linked my arm with that of the stranger, and together we passed out of
the shop into the unpolluted light of day.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Mother (to child who has been naughty)._ "AREN'T YOU
RATHER ASHAMED OF YOURSELF?"

_Child._ "WELL, MOTHER, I WASN'T. BUT NOW THAT YOU'VE SUGGESTED IT I
AM."]

* * * * *

PRETENDING.

I know a magic woodland with grassy rides that ring
To strange fantastic music and whirr of elfin wing,
There all the oaks and beeches, moss-mantled to the knees,
Are really fairy princes pretending to be trees.

I know a magic moorland with wild winds drifting by,
And pools among the peat-hags that mirror back the sky;
And there in golden bracken the fronds that toss and turn
Are really little people pretending to be fern.

I wander in the woodland, I walk the magic moor;
Sometimes I meet with fairies, sometimes I'm not so sure;
And oft I pause and wonder among the green and gold
If I am not a child again--pretending to be old.

W.H.O.