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the church were observed by Margarete by bouts of home-sickness. Curious slow Gregorian-like chantings emanated from the kitchen; and there Margarete would be discovered, prone on the table, chanting the hymns of the 'Vaterland,' sobbing out at intervals, ‘Oh, my parents are so happy to-day. To-day dey are boozing wiz der friends; dey are all boozy togezer. I do vish I vas dere!' Her familiar nod and Gut Tag,' if by chance she met anyone on the stairs or in the passages was a source of much amusement. On Sundays she was a sight to behold. She insisted on wearing a very loud checked tweed dress and decorations of coral en suite, or it might be a blue velveteen dress and amber necklace, &c. One day I expected Lord E. to luncheon. Now I feel sure that in her heart of hearts Margarete was a Socialist; her lips were tightly pressed together while I was ordering luncheon for this occasion. After a while, in a most nonchalant manner, she remarks, Ven zat man kormes to lunch-''Margarete!' I interrupt, 'how often am I to remind you to say "Ma'am," when you speak to me? and you must speak of Lord E. as his Lordship, not as "zat man." "Ach, ven I say Lord to Gott, I cannot say it to man.' It was not easy to persuade Margarete to keep up any regular church attendance. On being expostulated with, she announced, 'In my country, we can be gut wisout always running to church!' She told me one morning that to make a certain pudding she required 'two eggs and one joke;' she never could distinguish between the letters y and j. As I had suffered from the constant amours of previous cooks, I was glad to ascertain, when she entered my service, that Margarete had a lover in her beloved Germany, to whom she professed the sincerest constancy. I understood a little of the solemnity of a German betrothal, and felt much relieved that the knot was practically tied; but observing the undue attentions of 'de postemans,' 'de butchmonger,' and other males necessary to our daily civilised existence, I ventured to remind Margarete of her betrothed so far away, at which she promptly exclaimed, 'Vat is de good of a lover wid de sea between ?'-what indeed! A holiday sufficiently extended to enable Margarete to revisit the 'Vaterland' was accorded soon after this; and equipped for the voyage, in ' yachting costume if you please, braided sailor collar and all, Margarete tearfully came to wish me good-bye, begged our photographs, placed them inside her bodice next to her heart, and departedfor a month! On her return she confided to me that she had

changed her views about men, wished to have nothing more to do with them, had broken off her engagement, and henceforth would devote herself to her profession and never think of marrying.

I remember about this time an agitation was got up among philanthropists in our neighbourhood, on behalf of postmen, and the hardship of their having an hour or two's walk on a Sunday morning-before the hour of Divine service, mind you! I did not sympathise with that agitation, for who knew better than I of the abundance of leisure that a postman can give himself? I know that mine had a splendid time, and throve on it, and I soon. deemed it wise to take the matter into my own hands and announce that a marriage had been arranged, and would shortly take place, between Margarete and "de postemans."

On visiting Madame Postemans in her own home, I observed that she must have found it a little difficult to get into the habit of early rising, so as to give her husband his breakfast before he started for his work. The answer was characteristic. Ach! I do know better zan zat; he do get his breakfast on his rounds.' Subsequently, during a cookless interval, Margarete came to 'oblige' for a few weeks. I neglected to state that I did not invite the whole family; but it was understood that the paternal grandmother could mind the home during Margarete's absence on duty, and it was only when startled out of a light sleep (there was illness in the house, and I was rather overwrought) at dead of night by terrific howls, that I discovered the presence of the 'baby postemans,' who had been for several days successfully secreted within cupboards while I was likely to be about. His mother said that the child was all right,' but wanted to 'yump,' as he was stiff. When once the child's presence was disclosed, there was no longer any reason for shutting him up in the kitchen dresser; but imagine my feelings (he was at the slobbery stage of babyhood) on finding him supplied with the patty-pans and other smaller culinary articles as toys! Ugh! He was also taught to salute us as Onkel' and 'Tante.' Yes, Margarete certainly had a Socialistic vein in her. Finding the scale on which I was entertaining angels unawares, I speedily terminated Margarete's term of assistance. I tried a one-legged cook; but apparently her temper had gone with her leg, and though she was a good honest. servant she looked so sour, and alarmed me so much, that I used. to be all of a tremble' when the time came to order dinner. I engaged a woman from up the country, who arrived looking

more enthralling and satisfying than any variety or music-hall entertainment. I will mention only one-horticulture; as long as we have this, we can compete with you in the matter of amusements, though your big towns should drain out nearly all our young blood, and reduce our society' to that of sheep and cows. The person, whether male or female, who does not take an interest in gardening has no business in the country. There are, I believe, such people—ignoramuses who cannot tell a Brussels sprout from a cabbage, and who only come down to the country, at the worst season of the year, for the ‘hunting;' but they are not worth talking about; mere cockneys at heart, they have never been initiated into the mysteries of nature. The true countryman goes in for gardening heart and soul; and what occupation could be more interesting, more abounding in variety and capability ? It certainly involves some hard and unpleasant work : pruning gooseberry bushes with numbed fingers in a biting March wind is not delightful; nor do you enjoy leaving your comfortable hearth on a winter's night to hunt for slugs with a lantern, or bank up' the greenhouse fire. Pulling up weeds in wet weather is also not unmixed bliss, and there are few who enjoy nailing up a very thorny rose tree to a very dilapidated wall on a blazing hot day. But I would ask if these or any other of the trials of gardening are worse than things you townspeople have to put up with such, for instance, as waiting at a street corner for half an hour in a driving rain for an omnibus; or travelling on an oppressive day in August in a crowded Underground Railway carriage; or living for weeks together in an atmosphere of sooty fog? We gardeners too have this advantage, that from all our trouble we expect and generally obtain a satisfactory result, whereas your sufferings bring you nothing but future colds and sore throats.

When we first came here our garden was in a shocking state of confusion. The worthy Mrs. Grummles was apparently under the impression either that we preferred nature in unadorned wildness, or that we should rather enjoy the business of putting things to rights. She had therefore latterly employed no regular gardener--with surprising results! If ever there was a garden worthy of being compared to the sluggard's it was ours. The flowerbeds were not merely weedy, they were carpeted with weeds, and you couldn't tell them from the lawn. We hired two ablebodied men, and the whole household set to work against those

a

weeds. We slashed into them with might and main, and, as we thought, succeeded in exterminating them. Then we took some well-earned repose, and in a fortnight a fresh crop came up, as thick as ever! Nothing daunted, we renewed the assault, and since then we fight doggedly on, though sometimes we think we are engaged in a forlorn hope. I have made quite a study of weeds since I came here, and find in them a great variety in character. The nettle, for instance, is obtrusive; it loves to remind you of its presence at unexpected moments; it will be noticed, although you have not the least desire to make its acquaintance. Docks and thistles are remarkable for their bold, brazen insolence; they are positively vulgar in their self-assertion. The couch-grass is an embodiment of tough unyielding perseverance. Like the British army, it never knows when it is beaten. You may root it up, cut it and slash it as much as you like, but it 'conquers in its martyrdom,' and every disjointed particle becomes a fresh plant. The bind-weed again is undeniably pretty—or would be in its proper place by the wayside. It is an example of misapplied energy-a grave lesson to the reflective mind. I might mention other instances, but as I am going to bring out a book on The Philosophy of Weeds,' I need not enlarge on the subject here. The weeds, however, did not prevent the charms of our garden from unfolding themselves. We had hundreds of splendid roses, and the orchard trees were laden with fine fruit that

grew mellower and more beautiful every week. How delightful it was to step out from our porch on a glorious summer's morning when the sky was cloudless blue, and the air redolent with the scent of flowers! Our morning business was to make a tour of the whole place, beginning with the flower-garden and finishing with the orchard and meadow. Then, in the afternoon, we would sally forth, armed with spade and hoe, to do all manner of garden work, resting awhile about five o'clock to take tea on the lawn, where we were shaded by fragrant pine-trees, and serenaded by troops of birds. Then, after working again to supper-time, we would watch the stars come out one by one in unclouded brightness, and at 10 P.m. turn into bed, proudly conscious of having 'earned a night's repose. This is the sort of life we led—not for single days, but for weeks together. Can you imagine it, my cockney friends ? Can you by any expenditure of money buy anything like it in the London shops ? But I will not taunt you with our superior felicity; only let me advise you, ‘If these delights your

soul can move,' pack up your things at once and migrate to a country village.

You must not suppose, however, that life with us is a mere pastime; no, it is a strict combination of business with pleasure. Confiding in my reader's secrecy, I will reveal the fact that before I settled in the country I was engaged in the profession of literature. What profit resulted therefrom to publisher and printer I am unable to say, but as regards myself I can state with confidence that it might be contained in a very small nutshell. This being the case, I decided on coming here to take up market gardening in addition to literature. Such a combination is quite the fashion nowadays, as evidenced in the case of Mr. Blackmore and others of our leading novelists; it also seems a most prudent course, for if one fails the other ought to succeed, and theoretically you are perfectly safe. But alas for the fallibility of theories ! My grand idea was to go in for fruit farming. Mr. Gladstone advised it as a lucrative occupation, and asthetically considered, what could be more charming and poetical ? Accordingly I procured several books on ‘Fruit-growing for Profit '—they always have that kind of title--and studied them with the utmost

In one way my efforts were fully rewarded. I grew excellent fruit, there was no doubt of that; there were hundreds of bushels of it, and the trees were positively groaning under its weight. Now, however, came the difficulty; there was no one to buy it—at least at a fair price. Dealers came to look at it, offered for it the price of turnips or potatoes, but would make no higher bid. As for windfalls, they positively strewed the ground; you could not walk in the orchard without treading on them. Nobody would buy them—the market was 'glutted'-it always is according to the dealer. Finally, I counted up our profits at the end of the season, and found they came to what Carlyle calls 'a frightful minus quantity.'

It will thus be seen that it is possible to come to the ground between the two stools of literature and fruit farming. On the whole, however, there is a distinct advantage on the side of the latter profession. If you cannot sell your fruit, you can at least eat it or give it away. You cannot eat your poems or novels; you can certainly give copies to your friends; but they are only bored by them, whereas they really like your apples and pears. 1.1if this is the case with friends, still more is it so with editors

Alishers. I will wager that while these latter individuals

care.