It is Val who is really to be blamed for this literary attempt. When,
in an unlucky moment, I was one day expatiating on the material
afforded to a book-maker (I do not use the word in a sporting sense, of
course) by the varied characters and histories of our people, and the
more than ordinary interest attaching to some, he beamed at me across
the dinner-table, a twinkle of humor disclosing itself from behind his
glasses, and said:

"Why not write about them yourself, Ted? You complain of having
nothing to do in bad weather."

The idea took root; it was nourished by reflection. Here is the fruit;
pluck it or not, gentle reader, as your inclination bids.




II

MEMORIES


"Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain."
(_Goldsmith--"Deserted Village"_)


I have heard a complaint made of some reverend preachers (untruthfully,
I well believe) that they could never begin a sermon without harking
back to the Creation. Now it is not my intention to travel quite so