aid eagerly.

"All fathers of little girls believe in us."

The Queen shook her head.

"They only pretend," she said.

"No, that's just it," said the Thought-fairy. "They _pretend_ to
pretend. They never tell anyone, but they really believe."

"Then we'll end the strike," said the Queen.

Here the Brown Owl bustled in, carrying a little note-book.

"I've found out lots more," he said excitedly. "We must have an
executive and delegates and a ballot and a union and a Sankey
Commission report and a scale of the cost of living and a datum line
and--"

"But the strike's over," said the Queen. "It was a misunderstanding."

"Of course," he said huffily. "All strikes are that, but it's correct
to carry them on as long as possible."

"And the blacklegs are to have a special reward."

"That's illogical," muttered the Brown Owl.

He was right, of course, but things _are_ illogical in Fairyland.
That's the nicest part of it.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Salesman_. "IT IS POSSIBLE THAT IT MAY INTEREST YOU
TO KNOW THAT OUR CAR WAS DRIVEN UP ALL THE FLIGHTS OF STEPS AT THE
CRYSTAL PALACE."

_Inquiring Visitor_. "WELL--ER--NOT MUCH. YOU SEE, I LIVE IN A
BUNGALOW."]

* * * * *

"Fears are entertained that the chalice, which is of silver-gilt,
may have been broken up and investments profaned."--_Daily
Herald._

We should have thought that our Communistic contemporary was the last
paper that would have considered investments sacred.

* * * * *

"K. T. B---- and T. W. H----, both of Liverpool, who were in
company with Mr. L---- in the car, agreed that the speed was about
fifty-one miles an hour. On the gradient and at the turn it was
not safe to travel faster."--_Provincial Paper._

One of those examples of "Safety First" which we are always pleased to
chronicle.

* * * * *

=THE OPENING RUN.=

The rain-sodden grass in the ditches is dying;
The berries are red to the crest of the thorn;
Coronet-deep where the beech-leaves are lying
The hunters stand tense to the twang of the horn;
Where rides are refilled with the green of the mosses,
All foam-flecked and fretful their long line is strung;
You can see the white gleam as a starred forehead tosses,
You can hear the low chink as a bit-bar is flung.

The world's full of music. Hound