Tralee, "They have declared
war upon us and I suppose war it must be," the CHIEF SECRETARY said in
his most emphatic tones, "War it will be until assassination stops."

[Illustration: "Old Mother Goose was delighted when she saw what a
fine bird her son had provided her with."

WALES AND SIR A. GRIFFITH-BOSCAWEN.]

* * * * *

STUTTFIELD AND THE REDS.

Stuttfield was nothing of a NERO. He would never have fiddled while
Rome burned. He would have been more likely to imagine that Rome was
burning when there was really nothing more going on than a bonfire.
He is one more example of the pernicious influence of sensational
literature upon a nervous temperament.

It all began through Stuttfield finding a copy of _The Daily Blast_ in
a railway carriage last June. This journal is printed on white paper,
but the tendency of its contents is ruddy--that is to say, it has
"Red" leanings. It was a revelation to Stuttfield.

"Are people _allowed_ to say such things?" he asked me in horror.

"My dear fellow, no one takes it seriously," I said. "Don't you
worry."

But Stuttfield did worry. _The Daily Blast_ had the same effect upon
him as a snake has upon a rabbit; it terrified him, yet he could not
run away from it. In fact he became a regular subscriber and continued
so despite some rumours that it was supported financially by the
Rougetanians--rumours which required, and received, a great deal of
explanation.

Then, through the offices of his man-servant, he obtained a copy of
_The Volcano_.

_The Volcano_ appears to be in advance of _The Daily Blast_ in its
ideals, and immensely so in their expression. But here again I assured
Stuttfield that no one took them seriously. "I don't suppose they
take themselves seriously," I assured him. "They want to sell _The
Volcano_, that's all."

"Yes," said Stuttfield, "but they do sell it, and people read it."

"I expect the circulation's about two thousand a week," I said
consolingly. But Stuttfield, as I could see, was not consoled.

I met him at intervals after that, and on each occasion he seemed to
be more obsessed with the notion that the "Reds" would overwhelm us
all shortly.

"Russia is Red," he whispered; he always whispers now for fear of
being overheard by a Red agent, though there was not very much risk of
that in St. James's Street. "And what about India and China?"

"Red, black and yellow--the Zingari colours," I said ribaldly, and