esire?"
(The Apple Tree's in bloom.)

As Adam lay a-dreaming beneath the Apple Tree,
The Angel of the Fire rose up and not a word said he.
But he wished a fire and made it,
And in Adam's heart he laid it,
Singing.--"Fire, fire, burning Fire,
Stand up and reach your heart's desire!"
(The Apple Blossom's set.)

As Adam was a-working outside of Eden-Wall,
He used the Earth, he used the Seas, he used the Air and all;
And out of black disaster
He arose to be the master
Of Earth and Water, Air and Fire,
But never reached his heart's desire!
(The Apple Tree's cut down!)

A DEAL IN COTTON

Long and long ago, when Devadatta was King of Benares, I wrote some
tales concerning Strickland of the Punjab Police (who married Miss
Youghal), and Adam, his son. Strickland has finished his Indian Service,
and lives now at a place in England called Weston-super-Mare, where his
wife plays the organ in one of the churches. Semi-occasionally he comes
up to London, and occasionally his wife makes him visit his friends.
Otherwise he plays golf and follows the harriers for his figure's sake.

If you remember that Infant who told a tale to Eustace Cleever the
novelist, you will remember that he became a baronet with a vast estate.
He has, owing to cookery, a little lost his figure, but he never loses
his friends. I have found a wing of his house turned into a hospital
for sick men, and there I once spent a week in the company of two dismal
nurses and a specialist in "Sprue." Another time the place was full of
schoolboys--sons of Anglo-Indians whom the Infant had collected for the
holidays, and they nearly broke his keeper's heart.

But my last visit was better. The Infant called me up by wire, and I
fell into the arms of a friend of mine, Colonel A.L. Corkran, so that
the years departed from us, and we praised Allah, who had not yet
terminated the Delights, nor separated the Companions.

Said Corkran, when he had explained how it felt to command a
native Infantry regiment on the border: "The Stricks are coming for
to-night-with their boy."

"I remember him. The little fellow I wrote a story about," I said. "Is
he in the Service?"

"No. Strick got him into the Centro-Euro-Africa Protectorate. He's
Assistant-Commissioner at Dupe--wherever that is. Somaliland, ain't it,
Stalky?" asked the Infant.

Stalk