BLUE TITMOUSE.—­The nest of this active little bird is often situated in most extraordinary places.  It is frequently found inside village pumps, and in consequence is much persecuted by local milkmen.  It is feared that unless The Daily Mail can be persuaded to take up the cause of this unfortunate bird it will soon be faced with extermination.

ROOK.—­The chief difference between this bird and the Crow is found in the way in which its name is spelt.

THRUSH.—­See THROSTLE.

* * * * *

SONGS OF SIMLA.

II.—­SIMLA SOUNDS.

  I have heard the breezes rustle
    O’er a precipice of pines,
  And the half of a Mofussil
    Shiver at a jackal’s whines.

  I have heard the monkeys strafing
    Ere the dawn begins to glow,
  And the long-tailed langur laughing
    As he lopes across the snow.

  I have heard the rickshaw varlets
    Clear the road with raucous cries,
  Coolies clad in greens or scarlets,
    As a mistress may devise.

  Well I know the tittle-tattle
    Of the caustic muleteer,
  And the Simla seismic rattle
    Is familiar to my ear.

  Though to-day my feet are climbing
    Bleaker heights and harder roads,
  Still the Christ-church bells are chiming,
    Still the mid-day gun explodes.

  But the sound which echoes loudest
    Is the sound I never knew
  Till I lunched (the very proudest)
    With the Staff at A.H.Q.

  ’Twas a scene of peace and plenty,
    Plates a-steam and-spoons a-swoop;
  ’Twas a sound of five-and-twenty
    Hungry Generals drinking soup.

  J.M.S.

* * * * *

WAITING FOR THE SPARK.

(With thanks to the London Telephone Directory.)

I doubt if you have ever taken the book seriously, dear reader (if any).  You dip into it for a moment, choose a suitable quotation and scribble it down with a blunt pencil on your blotting-pad; then you wind the lanyard of the listening-box round your neck and start talking to the germ-collector in that quiet self-assured voice which you believe spells business success.  Then you find you have got on to the Institute of Umbrella-Fanciers instead of the Incorporated Association of Fly-Swatters, which you wanted, and have to begin all over again.  But that is not the way to treat literature.

In calm hours of reflection, rather, when the mellow sunlight streams into the room and, instead of the dull gray buildings opposite, you catch a mental glimpse of green tree-tops waving in the wind, and hear, above the rumbling of the busy ’buses, the buzzes ... the bumbling ... what I mean to say is you ought to sit down calmly and read the book from cover to cover, as I am doing now.

For it isn’t like a mere Street Directory, which puts all the plot into watertight compartments, and where possibly all the people in Azalea Terrace know each other by sight, even across the gap where it says:—­