year prizes of the
fashionable Q.C. or M.D., he does not have to wait their time for his
success, while what he can and does earn is amply sufficient for all
that a man of sense need desire. His calling is a password into all
ranks. In all circles he is honoured. He enjoys the luxury of a power
and influence that many a prime minister might envy.

'There is still a last prize in the gift of literature that needs no
sentimentalist to appreciate. In a drawer of my desk lies a pile of
letters, of which if I were not very proud I should be something more or
less than human. They have come to me from the uttermost parts of the
earth, from the streets near at hand. Some are penned in the stiff
phraseology taught when old fashions were new, some in the free and easy
colloquialism of the rising generation. Some, written on sick beds, are
scrawled in pencil. Some, written by hands unfamiliar with the English
language, are weirdly constructed. Some are crested, some are smeared.
Some are learned, some are ill-spelled. In different ways they tell me
that, here and there, I have brought to some one a smile or pleasant
thought; that to some one in pain and in sorrow I have given a moment's
laugh.'

* * * * *

Pinky yawns (or a shadow thrown by the guttering candle makes it seem
so). 'Well,' he says, 'are we finished? Have we talked about ourselves,
glorified our profession, and annihilated our enemies to our entire
satisfaction? Because, if so, you might put me back. I'm feeling
sleepy.'

I reach out my hand, and take him up by his wide, flat waist. As I draw
him towards me, his little legs vanish into his squat body, the
twinkling eye becomes dull and lifeless. The dawn steals in upon him,
for I have sat working long into the night, and I see that he is only a
little shilling book bound in pink paper. Wondering whether our talk
together has been as good as at the time I thought it, or whether he has
led me into making a fool of myself, I replace him in his corner.

'_CAVALRY LIFE_'

BY 'JOHN STRANGE WINTER'

(MRS. ARTHUR STANNARD)

[Illustration: THREE SOLDIERS AND A PIG]

My first book 'as ever was' was written, or, to speak quite correctly,
was printed, on the nursery floor some thirty odd years ago. I remember
the making of the book very well; the leaves were made from an old
copybook, and the back was a piece of stiff paper, sewed in place and
carefully cut down to the right s