It took us some time to get rid of the accumulation of marmalade,
margarine and bacon fat which we amassed in our attempts to link
fingers across the table; but about 10.30 or so we got settled down
to work on your behalf.

Until lunch-time we were fully occupied in giving each other ideas
and then explaining why they wouldn't work. After lunch the
Padre retired to his study to work out, he said, a satire--after
ARISTOPHANES--which would afford him an opportunity of introducing
the Archbishop of CANTERBURY'S speech, and making some whimsical
allusions to the legend of the strayed lamb come back to tell his
lean Scotch brethren of the green meadows and luscious feeding to be
had across the Borders.

My own ambitions were slighter. I would do a conversation perhaps
between the shades of JOHNSON and his BOZZY, or a Limerick, or even
just an original witty remark, or, failing all of these, I would
select an "apt quotation." About tea-time I retired to the garden
with a notebook, a pencil and a book of quotations. By 6.30 I had a
list of one hundred and two, and was wavering over the final choice
of a parody on "Some hae meat wha canna eat," and an adaptation of
"Be sooople, Davie, in things immaterial," when my parent came
out to the lawn, flushed and excited, with his last three hairs
triumphantly erect, and brandished a document in my face.

It was an ode, Mr. Punch--an ode five (foolscap) pages long, written
in Greek!

I gave him best at once, and then very gently suggested that his