nodding their heads. On their birthdays they
give each other gold caskets, and every November 10
they march in a body to the station to welcome the
new arrival. Poor fellow, the tears are streaming
down his cheeks, and his paunch is shaken with sobs,
but there is a hot bowl of turtle soup waiting for
him at Lady Tupkins’ house, The Mansion Cottage,
and he will soon feel more comfortable. He has
been allotted the “4th Fridays,” and it
is hoped that by Christmas he will have settled down
quite happily at Ichabod Lodge.
The Holiday Problem
The time for a summer holiday is May, June. July,
August, and September—with, perhaps a fortnight
in October if the weather holds up. But it is
difficult to cram all this into the few short weeks
allowed to most of us. We are faced accordingly
with the business of singling out one month from the
others—a business invidious enough to a
lover of the country, but still more so to one who
loves London as well. The question for him is
not only which month is most wonderful by the sea,
but also which month is most tolerable out of town.
I would wash my hands of London in May and come back
brown from cricket and golf and sailing in September
with willingness. Alas I it is impossible.
But if I pick out July as the month for the open-air
life, I begin immediately to think of the superiority
of July over June as a month to spend in London.
Not but what June is a delightful month in town, and
May and August for that matter. In May, for instance——
Let us go into this question. May, of course,
is hopeless for a holiday. One must be near one’s
tailor in May to see about one’s summer clothes.
Choosing a flannel suit in May is one of the moments
of one’s life—only equalled by certain
other great moments at the hosier’s and hatter’s.
“Ne’er cast a clout till May be out”
says a particularly idiotic saw, but as you have already
disregarded it by casting your fur coat, you may as
well go through with the business now. Socks;
I ask you to think of summer socks. Have you ordered
your half-hose yet? No. Then how can you
go away for your holiday?
Again, taxicabs pull down their shutters in May, and
you are able to see and be seen as you drive through
London. Never forget when you drive in a taxi
that you own the car absolutely as long as the clock
is ticking; that you are a motorist, a fit member for
the Royal Automobile Club; that the driver is your
chauffeur to obey your orders; and, best of all, that,
May being here, you can put your feet upon the seat
opposite in the sight of everybody. Will you miss
the glory? In June and July it will have lost
something. Pay your five shillings in May and
expand, live; pay your five pounds if you like and
drive all down the Cromwell Road. Don’t
bury yourself in Devonshire.
