I wish I could change my complexion
To purple or orange or red;
I wish I could look like the arm of a chair
So nobody ever would know I was there
When they wanted to put me to bed.

I wish I could be a chameleon
And look like a lily or rose;
I'd lie on the apples and peaches and pears,
But not on Aunt Margaret's yellowy chairs--
I should have to be careful of those.

The chameleon's life is confusing;
He is used to adventure and pain;
But if ever he sat on Aunt Maggie's cretonne
And found what a curious colour he'd gone,
I don't think he'd do it again.

A.P.H.

* * * * *


THAT TEA INTERVAL.

Before the last ball of 1920 is bowled and the last wicket in a
first-class match falls (as will most probably happen at the Oval this
very afternoon, September 15th), I should like to let the Gods of
the Game know how I propose to spend the following winter in their