well if they tried, but they
won't try."

"Come," I said, "I won't compete with you in knitting, but I'm game to
bet you've done seven feet six inches in length already."

"All right," said Helen, "we'll bet a penny. Only remember, mine was
only six feet yesterday and Rosie's was four inches shorter."

I spread the fabrics on the floor and set to work with a tape measure.
The first result was, Helen five feet eleven inches; Rosie five feet six
inches.

"This," I said, "is maddening. You are imitating Penelope."

"I don't know about Penelope," said Helen, "but you haven't straightened
them out enough."

I smoothed them out carefully and measured again. This time the result
was, Helen six feet two inches; Rosie five feet ten inches.

"Capital!" I said; "I will do some more smoothing."

"No," said Helen, "that won't be fair to Lady FRENCH or our soldiers. We
must give them an inch or so over, if anything;" and they picked up the
unfinished mufflers and set to work at them with renewed energy.

* * *

This was four days ago. Now both the mufflers are gloriously finished
and ready to be despatched. When our two soldiers wear them we hope they
will feel that there is a little magic in them as well as a great deal
of warmth. There is love knitted into them and admiration and gratitude,
and there are quiet thoughts of beautiful English country-sides and
happy homes which our soldiers are helping to guard for us, though they
are far away.

R. C. L.

* * * * *

THE LOST SEASON.

(_A Point of View._)

Farewell to the stretches of pasture and plough
And the flicker of sterns through the gorse on the hill,
And the mulberry coats there, alone with them now,
To cheer as they're finding and whoop at the kill;
Farewell to the vale and the woodland forlorn,
To the fox in his earth and the hound on his bench;
Unheard is the pack and unheeded the horn,
So loud and so near are the bugles of FRENCH.

The lines of blood hunters are gone from the stalls
And a host of good men to the millions that meet,
For grim is the Huntsman, in thunder he calls,
And continents roar with the galloping feet;
There's a country to cross where the fences are steel,
And, though many must fall and the finish is far,
There is none shall outride them, with heart, hand and heel,
Who have gone hard and straight in "The Image of War."

* *