... We had a few friends at Dockington last week, not a real party, but just a few old shoes—Tom, Arthur Vivian and the Dean of Marchester and Mrs. Dean. Since they went away I've had the most awful time with their umbrellas. They all took away with them the wrong ones, and then wrote to me to send them their right ones. Arthur Vivian never brought one, and whose he took away I can't say. In fact I've been exposed to an avalanche of returning umbrellas, and Parkins has spent all his time in doing up the absurd things and posting them. He has just celebrated his seventieth birthday, and these umbrellas have ruined what's left of his temper. Umbrellas still keep pouring in, and nobody ever seems by any chance to get the right one. It's the most discouraging thing I've ever been involved in. As far as I can make out the Dean's umbrella is now in the trenches with Tom. If ever I have a party at Dockington again I shall write, "No umbrellas by request," on the invitations.
THE INN O' THE SWORD.
A SONG OF YOUTH AND WAR.
Roving along the King's highway
I met wi' a Romany black.
"Good day," says I; says he, "Good day,
And what may you have in your pack?"
"Why, a shirt," says I, "and a song or two
To make the road go faster."