and when it comes I think we both feel vaguely that we are still
waiting for something. We are waiting to hear some magic letter go
_flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty_ ... and behold! there is
no FLOP ... and still it goes on--_flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-
flipperty_--growing fainter in the distance ... until it arrives at
some wonderland of its own. One day it must happen so. For we cannot
listen always for that FLOP, and hear it always; nothing in this world
is as inevitable as that. One day we shall look at each other with awe
in our faces and say, "But it's still flipperting!" and from that time
forward the Hill of Campden will be a place holy and enchanted. Perhaps
on Midsummer Eve--

At any rate I am sure that it is the only way in which to post a letter
to Father Christmas.

Well, what I want to say is this: if I have been a bad correspondent in
the past I am a good one now; and Celia, who was always a good one, is
a better one. It takes at least ten letters a day to satisfy us, and we
prefer to catch ten different posts. With the ten in your hand together
there is always a temptation to waste them in one wild rush of
flipperties, all catching each other up. It would be a great moment, but
I do not think we can afford it yet; we must wait until we get even more
practised at letter-writing. And even then I am doubtful; for it might
be that, lost in the confusion of that one wild rush, the magic letter
would start on its way--_flipperty-flipperty_--to the never-land, and we
should forever have missed it.

So, friends, acquaintances, yes, and even strangers. I beg you now to
give me another chance. I will answer your letters, how gladly. I
still think that NAPOLEON (or CANUTE or the younger PLINY--one of the