umped onto my doorstep.
From wrappings of sacking there emerged a large model of Eddystone
lighthouse; a thermometer was embedded in its chest, minus the
mercury, I noted. And Aunt Emily wished me as per enclosed card "A
joyous Easter."

With groans and lamentations another anniversary must be found by me.
Ah! Here we have it! KING GEOKGE V. born June 3rd. On the dark roof
of my spare-room wardrobe loomed an Indian vase--bright yellow with
red blobs--very rare and very hideous, with a bulge in its middle.
Obviously unique, because when the Indian made it his fellow-Indians
slew him to prevent repetitions of the offence. I packed it in the
middle of a crate and much straw, calculated to make an appalling mess
when released.

To dear Aunt Emily it went, with love, and a few topical remarks about
the Monarchy.

But Aunt Emily evidently had a diary too. On the 21st of
October--anniversary of Trafalgar--my heart sank as the railway
delivery van drew up at my door. The angry driver toiled into my
passage with a packing-case (bristling with splinters and nails). When
it was open and the chisel broken I picked the splinters out of my
fingers and contemplated the battered horn of a gramophone emerging
from sawdust and shavings.

The mess created was indescribable when the horn was drawn forth.
Shavings flew everywhere. The sawdust was like a butcher's shop. There
were records too, some broken, all scratched. When set going it made
a noise like a cockatoo with a cold. Decently covered with a cloth it
was interned in the loft.

Next please. One more effort and I should be one up and Aunt Emily to
play. And her turn would be Christmas. Once she sent me five pounds at
Christmas.

The diary again. A poor hatch of anniversaries for November. A partial
eclipse of the moon, partially visible at Greenwich, was down for the
22nd. But eclipses are too ominous.

I fell back on KING EDWARD VII., born November 9th, 1841. Twenty-three
volumes of Goodworthy's _History of England_ should commemorate this.
There had once been twenty-four, but the puppy ate one.

Gratitude came by return of post, and I sat down in peace to await
Christmas and a cheque.

But on December 19th came another dreadful and splintery packing-case.
Desperately I gouged it open. Out of it, through a cloud of shavings,
emerged my own loathsome yellow-and-red Indian vase! No word with
it--not a word, not a note. Not a funeral note.

Rage overtook me. I disinter