e us a book once--''Istory of Magdalen College,' I
think he wrote it 'imself."

"I think a pheasant would be very nice," I said, and began looking for a
book.

"Do you think Mr. Loomis will be back from town in time for dinner?"
asked Mrs. Beesley. "I know 'e's fond o' pheasant. He'd come if he
knew."

"We might send him a telegram," I said.

"Oh, dear, Oh, dear!" sighed Mrs. Beesley, overcome by such a fantastic
thought. "You know, Mr. Morley, a funny thing 'appened this morning,"
she said. "Em'ly and I were making Mr. Loomis's bed. But we didn't find
'is clothes all lyin' about the floor same as 'e usually does. 'I wonder
what's 'appened to Mr. Loomis's clothes?' said Em'ly.

"'P'raps 'e's took 'em up to town to pawn 'em.' I said. (You know we 'ad
a gent'man 'ere once that pawned nearly all 'is things--a Jesus
gentleman 'e was.)

"Em'ly says to me, 'I wonder what the three balls on a pawnbroker's
sign mean?'

"'Why don't you know, Em'ly?' I says. It means it's two to one you never
gets 'em back."

Just then there was a ring at the bell and Mrs. Beesley rolled away
chuckling. And I returned to the window to watch Kathleen play hockey.

_October, 1912._

"PEACOCK PIE"

Once a year or so one is permitted to find some book which brings a real
tingle to that ribbon of the spinal marrow which responds to the
vibrations of literature. Not a bad way to calendar the years is by the
really good books they bring one. Each twelve month the gnomon on the
literary sundial is likely to cast some shadow one will not willingly
forget. Thus I mark 1916 as the year that introduced me to William
McFee's "Casuals of the Sea" and Butler's "Way of All Flesh"; 1915 most
of us remember as Rupert Brooke's year, or the year of the Spoon River
Anthology, if you prefer that kind of thing; 1914 I notch as the season
when I first got the hang of Bourget and Conrad. But perhaps best of
all, in 1913 I read "Peacock Pie" and "Songs of Childhood," by Walter de
la Mare.

"Peacock Pie" having now been published in this country it is seasonable
to kindle an altar fire for this most fanciful and delightful of
present-day poets. It is curious that his work is so little known over
here, for his first book, "Songs of Childhood," was published in
England in 1902. Besides, poetry he has written novels and essays, all
shot through with a phosphorescent sparkle of imagination and charm. He
has the knack of "words set in delightful proport