ave you seen Jimmy this week in
the _Saturday_ on Lewis Morris?" or, "I say, do you think Buchanan
knows it was Jimmy who wrote that?" was what we said when we had lighted
our pipes.

Now I come to the incident that drew from Jimmy his extraordinary
statement. I was smoking with him in his rooms one evening, when a
clatter at his door was followed by a thud on the floor. I knew as
well as Jimmy what had happened. In his pre-_Saturday_ days he had
no letter-box, only a slit in the door; and through this we used to
denounce him on certain occasions when we called and he would not let us
in. Lately, however, he had fitted up a letter-box himself, which kept
together if you opened the door gently, but came clattering to the floor
under the weight of heavy letters. The letter to which it had succumbed
this evening was quite a package, and could even have been used as a
missile. Jimmy snatched it up quickly, evidently knowing the contents
by their bulk; and I was just saying to myself, "More proofs from the
_Saturday_," when the letter burst at the bottom, and in a moment a
score of smaller letters were tumbling about my feet. In vain did
Jimmy entreat me to let him gather them up. I helped, and saw, to my
bewilderment, that all the letters were addressed in childish hands
to "Uncle Jim, care of Editor of _Mothers Pets_." It was impossible
that Jimmy could have so many nephews and nieces.

Seeing that I had him, Jimmy advanced to the hearth-rug as if about to
make his statement; then changed his mind and, thrusting a dozen of the
letters into my hands, invited me to read. The first letter ran:
"Dearest Uncle Jim,--I must tell you about my canary. I love my canary
very much. It is a yellow canary, and it sings so sweetly. I keep it in
a cage, and it is so tame. Mamma and me wishes you would come and see us
and our canary. Dear Uncle Jim, I love you.--Your little friend, Milly
(aged four years)." Here is the second: "Dear Uncle Jim,--You will want
to know about my blackbird. It sits in a tree and picks up the crumbs
on the window, and Thomas wants to shoot it for eating the cherries;
but I won't let Thomas shoot it, for it is a nice blackbird, and I have
wrote all this myself.--Your loving little Bobby (aged five years)."
In another, Jacky (aged four and a half) described his parrot, and I
have also vague recollections of Harry (aged six) on his chaffinch, and
Archie (five) on his linnet. "What does it mean?" I demanded of Jim