at the policeman with the other, and he wagged his tail.
At least I am not sure that he wagged it; "shook" would be a better
word.

"Where did you get it?" he inquired.

"Oh, I just got hold of it," I said airily. "It's rather good, don't
you think?"

He stood for some time in doubt.

"It's a dog," he said at last.

I shook him warmly by the hand.

"You have taken a great load off my mind," I told him. "I will get a
licence at once."

This will score off them pretty badly.

After all you can't go behind a Government certificate, can you? EVOE.

* * * * *

[Illustration:

_Caller._ "IS MRS. JONES AT HOME?"
_Cook-General._ "SHE IS, BUT SHE AIN'T 'ARDLY IN A FIT STATE TO SEE
ANYBODY. SHE'S JUST BIN GIVIN' ME NOTICE."]

* * * * *

=THE CRY OF THE ADULT AUTHOR.=

[The "Diarist" of _The Westminster Gazette_, in the issue of October
25th, utters a poignant _cri de coeur_ over what he regards as one
of the great tragedies of the time--the crowding-out of the
"genuine craftsmen" of journalism and letters by Cabinet Ministers,
notoriety-mongers and, above all, by sloppy infant prodigies.]

Oh, bitter are the insults
And bitter is the shame
Heaped on deserving authors
Of high and strenuous aim,
When all the best booksellers
Their shelves and windows cram
With novels from the nursery
And poems from the pram.

In recent Autumn seasons
Writers of age mature
(From eighteen up to thirty)
Of sympathy were sure;
_Now_ publishers their portals
On everybody slam
Save novelists from the nursery
And poets from the pram.

Unfairly WINSTON CHURCHILL
Invades the Sunday sheets;
Unfairly MRS. ASQUITH
With serious scribes competes;
But these are minor evils--
What makes me cuss and damn
Are novels from the nursery
And poems from the pram.

When on the concert platform
The prodigy appears
I do not grudge his welcome,
The clappings and the cheers;
But I can't forgive the people
Who down our throats would cram
The novelists from the nursery,
The poets from the pram.

I met a (once) best seller,
And I took him by the hand,
And asked, "How's OPAL WHITELEY
And how does DAISY stand?"
He answered, "I can only
See sloppiness and sham
In novels from the nursery
And poems from the pram."

If I were only despot,
To end