Athol’s a bonny country and Sussex is good to see,
But it’s long since I left Blighty and I’m not what I used to be;
And May in Devon’s a marvel and June on Tummel’s fine,
And that may be most folk’s fancy, but it somehow isn’t mine;
For I know what I like, and the Land of Heart’s Delight
For me is just on the Blue Mountains, for that’s where I feel right.

  So I’ll pack my box and bedding in the old South Indian mail
  And wake to a dawn in Salem ghostly and grey and pale,
  And over by Avanashi and the levels of Coimbatore
  I’ll see them hung in the tinted sky and I won’t ask for more;
  For I’ll know I’m happy and I’ll make my morning prayer
  Of thanks for the sun on the Blue Mountains and me to be going there.

  The little mountain railway shall serve me for all I need,
  Crawling its way to Adderly, crawling to Runnymede;
  And the scent of the gums shall cheer me like the sight of a journey’s
      end,
  And the breeze shall say to me “Brother” and the hills shall hail me
      “Friend,”
  While the clear Kateri River sings lovesongs in my ear,
  And I’ll feel “Now I’m home again!  Ah! but I’m welcome here.”

  Clear in the opal sunset I shall see the Kundahs lie
  And the sweep of the hills shall fill my heart as the roll of the Downs
      my eye;
  And I’ll see Snowdon and Staircase and the green of the Lovedale Wood,
  And the dear sun shining on Ooty, and oh! but I’ll find it good;
  For I’ll have what I wanted, and all the worrying done,
  Because I’m back to the Blue Mountains and they and I are one.

  There’s peace beyond understanding, solace beyond desire
  For minds that are over-weary, for bodies that toil and tire,
  And over all that a something, a something that says, “You know,
  It’s the one place of all places where the gods meant you to go.” 
  Well, the gods know what they know, and I wouldn’t say them nay,
  And Blighty of course is Blighty, but it’s terribly far away,
  So I’ll get back to the Blue Mountains, and the betting is, I’ll stay.

  H.B.

* * * * *

CRICKET IN WAILS—­A HOWLING SUCCESS.

    “E.H. ——­ bawled consistently for the visitors, taking seven wickets
    of 168.”—­Welsh Paper.

* * * * *

WHAT TO DO WITH OUR BOYS.

As a sufferer from the prevailing complaint, house-famine, I have started a Correspondence Bureau, ostensibly for advising parents as to the pursuits their offspring should take up, but really for propaganda purposes, the object being the assuagement of this terrible evil.

Consequently my replies to inquiries are all moulded to this end.

For instance, one mother wrote from Surbiton:—­

“My second son, Algernon, wishes to become a house and estate agent.  Do please tell me if you think this quite a fitting avocation for one whose father is a member of the Stock Exchange.”