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that once having devoured all he could get, he lay
all night in the snow, singing "we won't go home till
morning". No wonder poor Bishop Baldwin has such
a lot of trouble getting things straight now.

Mr. Sage responded to "the British Empire" and
in so doing bore us across British seas on British
ships, to battles fought and won by British troops,
and again we heard the British trumpets blare,
and the fierce British battle-cry - thus vented he
the fullness of his wellfed heart, he shook his raven
locks and seemed like a warhorse to scent the battle
from afar. Then he cooled off and talked of Eng-
lish lanes, conjuring up visions of pale primroses,
violets, buttercups, daisies, may blossom and bluebells
on their banks; golden gorse, wild rose, tapering
pink foxgloves and feathery ferns in their over-
hanging hedges; the songs of many birds, memories
of lingering longer walks, the ripple of merry voices
the seats beneath the shade for talking age and