nd go and scratch under the
shrubbery. On Armistice day he quite let himself go, cackling and
mafficking round the yard in a manner almost absurd. But who did not
unbend a little on that historic day?

Perhaps his greatest achievement, however, was the mastering of
a system of signals, a sort of simplified Morse code, which we
established through the medium of an old motor-horn. One blast meant
breakfast-time; two intimated that I was about to dig in the waste
patch under the walnut trees and he was to assemble his wives for
a diet of worms; three loud toots were the summons for the mid-day
meal; four were the curfew call signifying that it was time for him
to conduct his consorts to their coop for the night; and so on, with
special arrangements in case of air-raids. Not once was Umslumpogaas
at fault; no matter in what remote corner of the yard he and his hens
might be, at the sound of the three blasts he would come hastening up
with his hens for dinner. I was most gratified.

And then came the disaster. I was sawing wood one morning in the
saddle house, and Umslumpogaas and his wives were sitting round about
the door, dusting themselves. All was peaceful. Suddenly down the lane
which passes the gate of my yard appeared a large grey-bodied car.
Some school-children being in the road the driver emitted three loud
warning hoots of his horn. In an instant Umslumpogaas was on his feet
and, his wives at his heels, making a bee line for the gate. By the
time he reached it the car had passed and was turning the corner that
leads to the village, when the driver again sounded his horn thrice.
With an imperious call to his wives to follow, Umslumpogaas set off at
full speed in pursuit, and before I had fully grasped the situation
my entire poultry-yard had vanished from sight in the wake of that
confounded motor-car. And it is the unfortunate truth that neither
Umslumpogaas nor a single member of his harem has been seen or heard
of since. It is as bad as the affair of the _Pied Piper_ of Hamelin.

I said at the beginning that this was rather a sad little story.
Taking into consideration the present price of new-laid eggs it
amounts more or less to a tragedy, and I put it down to nothing but
the baleful effects of over-education.

* * * * *

[Illustration: "GET ON WITH YOUR SUPPER, ROBERT. IT'S ONLY THE MISSUS,
AND SHE DAREN'T SAY ANYTHING FOR FEAR I SHOULD DEMOBILISE."]

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