piece to put in his pocket. If while standing on a duck-board he happened to be immune while his pals were being knocked out he would carry it about with him all day if possible. On one occasion he was very nearly shot for insubordination, because he would go out into No-man's-land after a flower which he thought would help him.

"Not that his superstition was purely selfish. Once, when he had had two particularly close shaves during the day, he insisted upon sleeping outside the barn where we were billeted. 'I'm absolutely certain to have a third close shave,' he said, 'and if I'm in the billet someone will get it.'

"The Corporal let him lie down in the farmyard, but a little later he crept up the road about fifty yards to make things more certain."

"And I suppose the barn was hit and he escaped?" I put in, feeling that I had heard this story before.

"You don't know Private Parks," said James. "About two o'clock in the morning a shell fell on the road not ten yards from him. Bits of it must have made a pattern all round him, but not one hit him, and when he'd picked himself out of the ditch he went back to the billet, knowing all was then safe.

"Then one day when we were in the front line there came up with the mail a parcel for Private Parks. I was near when he opened it. When he saw the contents he gave a sigh and a curious resigned expression came over his face.

"'What's she sent you?' I asked.

"'It's from my old aunt, Sir,' he said. 'It's a stocking.' 'Only one?' 'Yes,' he said with great solemnity. 'The other one's been pinched?' I asked. 'No, Sir. The parcel's not been opened. It simply means that I shall lose a leg to-day,' he added. He wasn't panicked at all. But, as to reassuring him, I might as well have argued with a tank.

"We'd had a very quiet time, but that evening the Hun put over a pretty stiff bombardment. We stood to, but we all thought it was only a little extra evening hate, except Private Parks. He kept saying, 'They're coming across,' till we told him not to get the wind up. But he hadn't got the wind up. Only he knew they were coming.

"And they did come. Just after it was dark they made a biggish raid and got into our front trench a little to our right. We started bombing inwards, but the slope of the ground was awkward, and they seemed to be having the best of the fun.

"Then Parks jumped up on to the parapet with a pail of bombs and ran along. He fairly got among them, and by the time he was hit in the right leg they were mostly casualties or prisoners. I saw him on the stretcher going back. He was in some pain, but he smiled, and said, 'One stocking will be enough now, Sir.'"

"Very extraordinary," I began, but James stopped me.

"I haven't finished," he said. "When about three months later I went down to Southmouth Convalescent Camp, almost the first man I saw was Private Parks. He was still on crutches, but he had two legs. I greeted him, and then I couldn't resist saying, 'What about the stocking?'

"'I'll tell you, Sir,' he said. 'For a week after I was wounded it was a toss up whether they took the leg off or not. Then a parcel arrived for me. It was the other stocking. My aunt had discovered that she had left it out. That evening the surgeon decided that they need not amputate. I knew they wouldn't, of course, as soon as I received the parcel.'"

James had really finished this time, and after a moment's reflection I said, "I wonder if that's true."

"Do you flatter me?" he asked.

"I don't know about that. Not with intent," I said, "though it would really be more to your credit if you'd made it up."

"As a matter of fact," said James, "I did make it up. It was suggested to me by the heading to a letter in this paper—'The Stocking of Private Parks,' though that appears to be upon quite a different subject. Something agricultural, I gather."

"By a comparison of the wet and dry bulb registrations the dew point and the humility of the atmosphere is determined."
Banbury Guardian.

In the first week of August, at any rate, the atmosphere had no reason to swank.

THE INTRUDERS

AMERICAN EAGLE (to German Peace Doves). "GO AWAY; I'M BUSY."

Chatty Waiter (to Visitor Growing Stouter Every Day).
"I'M SURE, SIR YOUR STAY HERE IS DOING YOU GOOD. WHY, YOU'RE TWICE THE GENTLEMAN YOU WERE WHEN YOU CAME."]

A LETTER FROM NEW YORK.

Dear ——,—We got here safely, with the usual submarine scares en route, but apparently no real danger. Vessels going westward from England are not much the U-boats' concern, nor are the U's, I guess, particularly keen on wasting torpedoes on passenger ships. What they want to sink is the goods.

Anyway, we got here safely. It is all very wonderful and novel, and the interest in the War is unmistakable; but what I want to tell you about is an experience that I have had in the house of one of the leading picture collectors here—and the art treasures of America are gradually but surely becoming terrific. If some measure is not passed to prevent export, England will soon have nothing left, except in the public galleries. Of course, for a while, America can't be so rich as if she had not come into the War, but she will be richer than we can ever be for a good many years, while the steel people who make the implements of destruction at Bethlehem will be richest of all. What my man makes I cannot say, but he is a king of sorts, even if not actually a Bethlehem boss, and the Medici are not in it! I have introductions to all the most famous collectors, but, hearing of his splendours, I went to him first.

Well, I sent on my credentials, and was invited to call and inspect the Plutocrat's walls. You never saw anything like them! And he refers to his collection only as a "modest nucleus." He has agents all over the world to discover when the possessors of certain unique works are nearing the rocks. Then he offers to buy. As his wealth is unlimited, and sooner or later all the nobility and gentry of England, France, Italy and Russia will be in Queer Street, his collection cannot but grow and become more and more amazing. He even had the cheek to send the Trustees of the National Gallery a blank cheque asking them to fill it up as they wished whenever they were ready to part with TITIAN'S "Bacchus and Ariadne." Though he calls himself a patriot, directly the War is done he will make overtures to Germany. There is a Vermeer in Berlin on which he has set his heart, and another in Dresden.

I could fill reams in telling you what he has. But I confine myself to one picture only, which he keeps in a room by itself. I am not so foolish as to pretend to know anything, but to my eyes this picture was nothing whatever but the Louvre's "Monna Lisa."

That being of course impossible, "What a wonderful copy!" I said.

"You may indeed say so," replied my host.

I looked at it more closely, even applying a pocket magnifying-glass.

"There was not a contemporary duplicate?" I inquired. "Could LEONARDO have painted two?"

The Chowder King, or whatever he is called, smiled inscrutably. "No doubt he could," he said. "But perhaps," he continued, "you have not seen the Louvre picture since it was put back after the theft?"

"Not to examine it closely," I replied.

He laughed softly and led the