blic health of the Borough of
Ipswich. Still, I felt that something must be done. So I consulted
Jones. Jones is, like myself, a poet; he is also the official whom
Ministers of the Crown are accustomed, when hard pressed, to consult on
the subject of Infantile Mortality amongst Suburban Undertakers; why, I
cannot say, though many think it is on the strength of his having been a
Philpott's Theological Prizeman at Oxford. I scribbled him a line in
pencil: "Come over into number thirteen and help us; and bring your
cigarettes." He came, and before leaving the office at 4.30 I was
enabled to comply with my sister-in-law's request. I wrote as follows:--

"Dear Grace,--I do not remember Mary Smith. On the other hand, since in
poetry, as in boxing and batting, the proper management of the feet is
everything, and requires more practice than either you or your friend
have apparently been able to devote to it, I have much pleasure in
coming to the rescue. In dealing with members of the medical profession
it is never wise to beat about the bush; superfluous subtlety merely
irritates them. I have therefore endeavoured to make the poem just the
artless outpouring of the innocent passion of such a girl as I imagine
your friend Mary Smith to be. Here it is.

TO GEORGE.

How I love you, how I love you,
Oh, you therapeutic dove, you!
How I long to snuggle coyly on your chest;
And reposing there to woo you,
Till, with soft responsive coo, you
Bid me share your warm but hygienic nest!

Though I might have oft been married,
I have tarried, I have tarried,
Hoping still that I should catch you on the hop;
For to pining, lonely Mary
To be George's own canary
Would be sweeter than the sweetest ginger pop.

"'George'--in the title and body of the poem--can of course be altered,
if necessary; but something, I know not what, tells me that that is his
name, and that it is probably followed by Harris. I may be mistaken, but
George Harris, as I feel I know him, is a simple, muscular young man,
addicted to tennis and his bicycle, fairly good at diagnosing whooping
cough or a broken leg. He likes his pipe and reads the _Referee_ on
Sunday mornings. Mary, however, will change all that. She will furnish
in fumed oak, art flower-pots, and the poems of ELLA WHEELER WILCOX, and
so will lead him gradually to higher and better things. I wish her all
success.

Yours,

Edwin.

P.S.--It is t