iven up to
Satan.

Fancy Rose saying there were no humbugs about here, when such a man as
Barjona flourishes unabashed! But when I come to think of it, she
didn't quite say that: she simply said that my neighbours hated humbug
as they hate the devil, and Barjona loves them both. The thought of
him makes me sick, and when I found out what an old Shylock the man is
I went into the studio with a hammer and smashed his negatives into a
hundred pieces, with as much zest as if I had been a militant
suffragette breaking windows in Regent Street under the eyes of a
scandalised policeman.

If nature had been clothed in drab on Wednesday afternoon when the
report of unusual occurrences in the village drew me to the little
group of excited people who were discussing them it would have been
appropriate to the occasion. But she wasn't--she was dressed in her
gayest and most captivating summer clothing.

I think that in itself is vexing. Why should nature look so pleased
and happy when people are miserable, and so emphasise the contrast? If
I am grumpy to begin with it makes me feel ever so much worse to know
that nature is laughing at me, and is just as bright and optimistic as
I am wretched. And, contrariwise, if I do wake up one morning
determined to "bid dull care begone"--who was it used that expression
recently?--and be merry and cheerful, the skies are sure to be like
lead, and the ram is certain to drip, drip, in that sullen, persistent
fashion that would drive Mark Tapley himself to pessimism. There is a
law of cussedness, I am convinced, and I believe I have discovered it.
Mother Hubbard says it is my liver, and prescribes pills!

When I joined the group there were so many eager to tell me the story
that it was some time before I could make out its purport. By the way,
I ought to point out that I am _not_ becoming a gossip, but I am
interested in the news of the village. We have no _Daily Mail_ to
chronicle our doings, and our methods are therefore necessarily
primitive. Besides, to hold aloof from one's neighbours is a sign of
what Rose calls "snorkiness."

One of the dearest little cottages in the village is inhabited by a man
called Carrier Ted. I had never been inside it, but its
picturesqueness appeals to me every time I pass it, and you may often
see visitors leaning over the low wall of the garden and enthusing
about it. It is just a little one-storeyed, two-roomed cot, not nearly
so big as some ge