bad at first: like owls, as you say, and men talking sometimes. One night
it was in this garden, and at other times about several of the cottages.
But lately there has been very little: I think it will die out. There is
nothing in our registers except the entry of the burial, and what I for a
long time took to be the family motto: but last time I looked at it I
noticed that it was added in a later hand and had the initials of one of
our rectors quite late in the seventeenth century, A. C.--Augustine
Crompton. Here it is, you see--_quieta non movere_. I suppose-- Well, it
is rather hard to say exactly what I do suppose.'




THE TRACTATE MIDDOTH

Towards the end of an autumn afternoon an elderly man with a thin face
and grey Piccadilly weepers pushed open the swing-door leading into the
vestibule of a certain famous library, and addressing himself to an
attendant, stated that he believed he was entitled to use the library,
and inquired if he might take a book out. Yes, if he were on the list of
those to whom that privilege was given. He produced his card--Mr John
Eldred--and, the register being consulted, a favourable answer was given.
'Now, another point,' said he. 'It is a long time since I was here, and I
do not know my way about your building; besides, it is near closing-time,
and it is bad for me to hurry up and down stairs. I have here the title
of the book I want: is there anyone at liberty who could go and find it
for me?' After a moment's thought the doorkeeper beckoned to a young man
who was passing. 'Mr Garrett,' he said, 'have you a minute to assist this
gentleman?' 'With pleasure,' was Mr Garrett's answer. The slip with the
title was handed to him. 'I think I can put my hand on this; it happens