Even Australia's seas harbour snakes, beautiful orange-banded creatures that curl sinuously about one's float, yet exceeding venomous and, being half-blinded by the more intense light out of water, possessed of a nasty trick of striking desperately right and left, an obscene speculation that has ere now cost a fisherman his hand. The country's insects have likewise their own eccentricities, as the new arrival soon realises when, having been assured that the native bees have no sting (which is a fact), he unwittingly handles a straying honey-bee (imported from Europe) and carries away so warm a token of its affection as to give him for the future a firm, though unmerited, belief that King David must have spent some time in Australia.

But memory must be gently checked, and the old diaries must be laid back on the shelf, since no further purpose can be served by more belated publication of their harmless records; indeed, it needed the revival of interest in things Australian to encourage even thus much of uninvited confidence. Some day, when Australia's resources are fully developed, her territory properly taken up, new cities flourishing on land still innocent of man's presence, she will indeed be a priceless ally, a formidable foe. At present, however, her strength is undeveloped, and we may prophesy and rejoice or shake our heads, as seems good to us, over her young growth, even as toothless dotards have mumbled futile forecasts over the cradle of a hero.

F. G. AFLALO.

FATE THE FINGER-POST.

WISLEY!' cried I, looking up at the finger-post.

'Why, 'twas to Wisley that little Burrows retired when he bought a gold ring for Betty Marchington.' I mounted my wheel again, and followed the direction of the finger-post.

Now what was I to find at my journey's end? Should I meet Burrows-we called him 'Bunny' at school-sitting under an immemorial elm reading Tennysonian lyrics to a love-sick Betty; or should I interview Bunny in one wing of the mansion, and Betty in another? But, why mansion? Perhaps the eccentric little beast was living in a cottage, and perhaps Betty bathed the baby. I put on my brake. But as the wheels slowed a white gate flashed out of the hedgerow and I saw a neat drive running under flowering chestnuts and sycamores up towards a house glimmering in the distance. This,' said I, 'must be Bunny's hutch.'

So I turned in, and rode slowly through the cool air and soft shade of the avenue, wondering how Bunny would look after these many years, and (doubtful point) how little Betty would greet an old bachelor acquaintance. In the midst of my thoughts I saw a damsel approaching, walking on the grass at the drive's side intent upon a book. She made a pretty picture, and I rode slowly. A nearer view disclosed a simple girlish face, a quiet maidenly grace, and a simplicity of attire in harmony with her green carpet and leafy roof. I dismounted.

Can you tell me,' said I, pleased by her startled eyes and quick blushes, can you tell me if Mr. Burrows is at home?'

She made no answer. Her lips shut resolutely, her eyelids closed tightly, and she stood before me in evident mental distress. A hesitating sound came from between her clenched lips, as though she were struggling to tell a lie that frightened her. She opened her eyes, looked at me, looked at the boughs above us, looked at my handle-bars, looked at her own small feet, and then, with a suddenness that paralysed me, burst into tears and darted through the trees like a terrified fawn.

'Now,' said I to myself, here is a mystery. something odd. Bunny is perhaps a villain.

Bunny is doing This girl is an

heiress, and he and his Lady Betty Macbeth are keeping her out of her inheritance or the marriage market. I will be her chivalrous knight. I will knock Bunny on the head, snap my fingers in the frenzied face of Betty, and carry the imprisoned maiden into freedom-across my handle-bars.' So I rode on.

Hardly had I gone a dozen yards when a horseman came trotting towards me from the glimmering house. He was tall, spare, dark; the opposite of Bunny. He looked a gentleman, a pleasant gentleman; but are there no villains who go about the world disguised as gentlemen? I hailed him; he reined in his steed.

'Is Mr. Burrows at home?' asked I, sternly.

No answer. My tall, spare, dark gentleman fixed me with his black eyes, pursed his lips, and wagged not his tongue. There was something so wistful in the manner of his looking at me, something so anti-villainous in the expression of his sad face, that I incontinently threw my romance theory to the winds. Clearly the house was haunted, and this horseman was a spirit. A chill struck me in the back, and every hair on my head pricked. Slowly, with my eyes fixed on his, I drew backward, inch by inch. got my bicycle away from his side, and though a strange, almost a mad, expression came into his eyes, I resolutely put foot on the step, slowly pushed the machine forward, and suddenly mounted. Once again I rode forward, and as I approached the house the dull thud of the horse's hoofs on the grass at the side of the drive smote terror in my heart. It was so ghostly.

At the end of the avenue there was garden and lawn, and under one of the trees was a group of men and women. They regarded me with so much interest that I forbore to go nearer to the house, and, wheeling my machine on to the lawn, approached them with my nerves still a-flutter. This move very evidently discomposed them. I began to think that there must be something odd in my attire, something amiss in my appearance. The ladies in the group looked apprehensively at each other; the men shifted in their wicker chairs, and some even got up and moved a few yards away.

'Forgive me,' I said, hat in hand, my wheel at a standstill, 'but I am in doubt as to whether this is the house of a friend of mine, Mr. Burrows. Will you tell me if I am knocking on the wrong door?'

The question was addressed to the group, but my eyes had

rested on a comely matron, and as I ended she leaned forward in her chair, closed her eyes, jerked her head backwards and forwards, and began to make the most astonishing sounds that ever issued from human lips. Then, the group took up the strain. Everyone there began to hum-a weird, utterly unearthly humming. Some closed their eyes, others appeared to squint, and some-a bald-headed, flannel-clad old gentleman in particular— began to make the most insulting faces at me. And all the time there was the choric hum-the rumbling, jerky, and spasmodic

hum.

6

Really,' said I, 'you must forgive me if I say this treatment is undeserved. Have not our wise forefathers laid it down as incontrovertible that a civil question deserves an answer civil too? I ask for information, modestly, politely; you boo at me, make faces at me, shut your eyes upon me!'

The hum instantly increased in volume. Two of the men sprang pleadingly towards me, the women lifted imploring hands. Louder and louder grew the growling, staccato humming, more insulting the grimaces.

'Gracious heavens!' cried I, 'the place is haunted, or I am bewitched.' Then I wheeled my bicycle round, and was about to ride away at scorcher's pace when I espied a gentleman walking towards me from the house, whose air was the air of a proprietor. He smiled in so genial a manner, and had so solid a frame, that I delayed my departure. Here at last was no ghost.

'You have been making the acquaintance of my family?' he began.

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'Sir!' cried I, starting back, are you responsible for thesethese men and women? The old gentleman with the bald head and white flannels

He laughed. He is my baby, my last. But I thought you understood. This is Wisley House.'

6

Exactly,' said I, 'the abode of one Burrows.

'Not at all,' said he. Wisley Park is where Mr. Burrows lives. Wisley House is where I live.'

'And these are your children?' I began in bewilderment. Surely all the world has

'My pupils, sir,' he laughed.

heard of Wisley House, and, I say it modestly, of Mr. Rampton— the curer of stammering. I suppose the war has taken people's thoughts far away from Wisley. Come, and let me introduce you to some of my family.'

Then did I spend as agreeable an afternoon as ever fell to a bicycle adventurer. Instead of Bunny in carpet slippers and Betty lullabying bawling babies, I met a dozen fellow inhabitants of this sad star whose lot awoke in me interest and compassion. When I had been introduced, had apologised for my reproof of their manners, and had wrung the hand of the old gentleman in flannels, the professor of the establishment begged the company to speak entirely by rule' and demonstrate to the intruder the marvels of his cure.

Nervousness left them, and they began to talk-such a strange pitiable talk! But they were as merry over it as schoolboys kicking a sneak. It is only when a stammerer would keep his secret from a smooth-tongued world that he is abashed and selfconscious. This I learned from my now merry companions, who, with the ice broken, were as willing to discuss their infirmity with me as I was delighted to receive their confidences. They mocked their own affliction, laughed at their inability to say particularly difficult words, and the old gentleman in the midst of his narrative (delivered in a low, even monotone) exploded with laughter because he tried to say 'I am conquering my stammer,' and tripped at the conquering' and came a complete cropper over the 'stammer.'

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A houseful of stammerers! And in that house a shy little maiden, whose affliction had sent hot tears into her eyes, and driven her away from me in the bitterness of her self-contempt. To her life showed none of those merry joys which keep the roses in maiden cheeks and the lines out of the smooth white brow of youth. Solitary ways she loved for their solitude only, and had a lover appeared suddenly in the midst of her lonely pacing, she would have wept, and run from him with flaming cheeks.

But if he had followed, and had won her confidence with sympathy, she might perchance have learned something of the joy of life. What might she not have learned? For Love hath a language all his own.

HAROLD BEGBIE.