[Illustration: BADLY-HEARD SAYINGS: 1. “HITCH YOUR WAGON TO A TAR.”]
There was once a pine wood on the slope of a hill, and in the middle of the wood was a lovely silver birch which could not grow as it should because the pine trees were so closely packed about it.
Instead of being sorry for it, the pine trees were insulting.
“What are you doing here anyway?” they said. “You weren’t invited. This is a pine wood. Why aren’t you out there on the common, among the brake fern, with all the others of your finicking useless tribe? Who wants silver birches? They do no good in the world.” And so on.
The silver birch, who was a perfect lady, made no reply.
And then a war came and it was necessary to get timber for all kinds of purposes, and all over the country the woods were cut down, among them this pine wood, for pine is very useful for planks for building huts.
The men came with their axes and felled tree after tree, but when they reached the silver birch they said, “We’ll leave this—it’s no good for timber, and when all these others are gone it will have a chance.”
And so it was left, and soon it stood all alone and very beautiful, surrounded by the dead bodies of the unkind pine trees, absolute queen of the hill.
Being a perfect lady it still said nothing to them, nor had it even smiled as they tottered and fell.
The moral is that every one’s good time _may_ come.
Parents are always saying that they once were children too, but they give no signs of it.
It is a peculiarity of parents that they always want you to change your boots.
Parents have several set forms of speech, of which “You seem to think I’m made of money” is one, and “I never did that when I was your age” is another. They also wonder “What the world is coming to.”
Parents live in houses, usually in the best rooms. They can’t bear doors either to be left open or shut with a bang.
A funny thing about parents is that they can find interesting reading in newspapers.
DEAR EDITOR,—You did me the honour to ask me to contribute to your magazine, but as I am no writer I can send you nothing of my own. But I have arranged for a very nice piece of nonsense to be copied out for you. It was written by a mathematician and philosopher named W. K. Clifford and was published years ago but seems now to be forgotten. It was Mrs. W. K. Clifford who wrote a delightful book for children called _The Getting-well of Dorothy_ and a delightful book for grown-ups called _Aunt Anne_. Wishing every success for _The Beguiler_ in its most admirable campaign,—I am, yours faithfully,
