"I don't care for that tree at A 29.b.5.8"," you say to the telephone.
"It's altogether too crooked (or too straight). Off with its head!" and,
hey presto! the offending herb is not. Or, "That hill at C 39.d.7.4" is
quite absurd; it's ridiculously lop-sided. I think we'll have a valley
there instead." And lo! the absurd excrescence goes west in a puff of
smoke.

Our Albert Edward spent a most enjoyable week altering the geography of
Europe to suit his taste. Then one morning he made a trifling error of
about thirty degrees and some few thousand yards and removed the wrong
village.

"One village looks very much like another, and what are a few thousand
yards this way or that in a war of world-wide dimensions? Gentlemen, let
us not be trivial," said our Albert Edward to the red-hatted people who
came weeping to his O. Pip. Nevertheless some unpleasantness resulted,
and our Albert Edward came home to shelter in the bosom of us, his
family.

The unpleasantness spread, for twenty-four hours later came a chit for
our Albert Edward, saying if he had nothing better to do would he drop
in and swoop yarns with the General at noon that day? Our Albert Edward
made his will, pulled on his parade boots, drank half a bottle of brandy
neat, kissed us farewell and rode off to his doom. As he passed the
borders of the camp The O'Murphy uncorked himself from a drain, and,
seeing his boon-companion faring forth a-horse, abandoned the rat-strafe
and trotted after him.

A word or two explaining The O'Murphy. Two years ago we were camped at