"

"How do you begin?" asked the first.

"I begin 'My Darling,'" said the second love-letter.

"That's nothing," said the first; "I begin 'My Ownest Own.'"

"I don't think much of either of those beginnings," said a new voice. "I
begin, 'Most Beautiful.'"

"You're from a man, I suppose?" said the second love-letter.

"Yes, I am," said the new one. "Aren't you?"

"No, I'm from a woman," said the second. "I'll admit your beginning's
rather good. But, how do you end?"

"I end with 'A million kisses,'" said the new one.

"Ah, I've got you there!" said the second. "I end with 'For ever and
ever yours.'"

"That's not bad," said the first, "but my ending is pretty good in its
way. I end like this: 'To-morrow will be Heaven once more, for then we
meet again.'"

"Oh, do stop all this love talk," said the gruff voice again, "and be
sensible like me. I'm a letter to an Editor putting everything right and
showing up all the iniquities and ineptitudes of the Government. I shall
make a stir, I can tell you. I'm It, I am. I'm signed 'Pro Bono
Publico.'"

"That's funny!" said another letter. "I'm signed that too, but I stick
up for the Government."

But at this moment the listener was conscious of a hand on his arm and a
lantern in his face.

"Here," said the authoritative tones of a policeman, "I think you've
been leaning against this pillar-box long enough. If you can't walk I'll
help you home."

Thus does metallic prose invade the delicate poetical realm of
supernature.

The Dark Secret

It was the most perfect September day that anyone could remember. The
sun had risen in a dewy mist. The early air was pungent with yellowing
bracken.

Then the mist cleared, the dew disappeared from everywhere but the
shadows, and the Red Admirals again settled on the Michaelmas daisies.

A young man walked up and down the paths of the garden and drank in its
sweetness; then he passed on to the orchard and picked from the wet
grass a reddening apple, which he ate. Something pulled at his flannel
trousers: it was a spaniel puppy, and with it he played till
breakfast-time.

He was staying with some friends for a cricket match. It was the last of
the season and his only game that year. As one grows older and busier,
cricket becomes less and less convenient, and on the two occasions that
he had arranged for a day it had been wet.

He had never been a great hand at the game. He had never made 100 or
even 70, never ta