the excellencies of Merrick are not apparent, I can only think that
nothing which I or any other man could say would render them obvious.
"Happiness is in ourselves," as the Vicar remarked to the donkey who
was pulling the lawn-mower.

Good luck, Leonard Merrick, and good cheer! I shout my greeting to you
across the ripples of that inky lake which is our common fishery.

A. NEIL LYONS.



A CHAIR ON THE BOULEVARD



THE TRAGEDY OF A COMIC SONG

I like to monopolise a table in a restaurant, unless a friend is with
me, so I resented the young man's presence. Besides, he had a
melancholy face. If it hadn't been for the piano-organ, I don't suppose
I should have spoken to him. As the organ that was afflicting Lisle
Street began to volley a comic song of a day that was dead, he started.

"That tune!" he murmured in French. If I did not deceive myself, tears
sprang to his eyes.

I was curious. Certainly, on both sides of the Channel, we had long ago
had more than enough of the tune--no self-respecting organ-grinder
rattled it now. That the young Frenchman should wince at the tune I