ow nothing finer. Let me just cut for you
one more slice of this rarely seasoned pastry.

THE LITTLE BIRD

My dear Daddie bought a mansion
For to bring my Mammie to,
In a hat with a long feather,
And a trailing gown of blue;
And a company of fiddlers
And a rout of maids and men
Danced the clock round to the morning,
In a gay house-warming then.
And when all the guests were gone, and
All was still as still can be,
In from the dark ivy hopped a
Wee small bird: and that was Me.

"Peacock Pie" is immortal diet indeed, as Sir Walter said of his scrip
of joy. Annealed as we are, I think it will discompose the most callous.
It is a sweet feverfew for the heats of the spirit, It is full of
outlets of sky.

As for Mr. de la Mare himself, he is a modest man and keeps behind his
songs. Recently he paid his first visit to America, and we may hope that
even on Fifth Avenue he saw some fairies. He lectured at some of our
universities and endured the grotesque plaudits of dowagers and
professors who doubtless pretended to have read his work. Although he is
forty-four, and has been publishing for nearly sixteen years, he has
evaded "Who's Who." He lives in London, is married, and has four
children. For a number of years he worked for the Anglo-American Oil
Company. Truly the Muse sometimes lends to her favourites a merciful
hardiness.

THE LITERARY PAWNSHOP

Excellent Parson Adams, in "Joseph Andrews," is not the only literary
man who has lamented the difficulty of ransoming a manuscript for
immediate cash. It will be remembered that Mr. Adams had in his
saddlebag nine volumes of sermons in manuscript, "as well worth a
hundred pounds as a shilling was worth twelve pence." Offering one of
these as a pledge, Parson Adams besought Mr. Tow-Wouse, the innkeeper,
to lend him three guineas but the latter had so little stomach for a
transaction of this sort that "he cried out, 'Coming, sir,' though
nobody called; and ran downstairs without any fear of breaking his
neck."

As a whimsical essayist (with whom I have talked over these matters)
puts it, the business of literature is imperfectly coordinated with
life.

Almost any other kind of property is hockable for ready cash. A watch, a
ring, an outworn suit of clothes, a chair, a set of books, all these
will find willing purchasers. But a manuscript which happens not to meet
the fancy of the editors must pe