gestures of cultivation - here it is a sweet-pea, there a nasturtium - but but no serious pretence is made that there is any other purpose in their lives than the upkeep of each other's dogs. Of other animals only the cow and the horse are encouraged to exist in any quantity, the cow to provide milk for the dogs and the horse to fetch the new dogs from the station.

The chief meeting-place of the dogs of the village is in the little square by the pub, where at almost any moment of the day it is possible to obtain a superb view of the entire herd. It is here that they assemble to decide which of the residents or visitors they shall take for a walk. The rule is that no dog shall ever go for a walk with his own proprietor, and as you saunter through the square on your way to the Downs you are subjected to a rigid scrutiny. The number of dogs, however, is so large in proportion to the number of persons that even the least worthy of us is fairly sure of a retinue of at least four dogs. I myself proceeded one evening on a solitary stroll to the Concrete Dew-Pond, in order to catch newts, accompanied by one greyhound, one mastiff, one black woolly animal disguised as a retriever, one somethinghaired thingummy and an Irish terrier.

While the dogs gamboled and frisked among themselves in front it was pleasant to amble along in tranquil meditation, pausing only to rescue two goats moored by the wayside from the assaults of the greyhound, or to prevent the Irish terrier from being eaten alive by the mastiff; it was pleasant to sit in the sun by the pond, catching newts, though it is true that my efforts were largely neutralized by the black woolly dog disguised as a retriever, who insisted on rushing violently into the pond and, with the marvelous instinct of animals, attempting to retrieve the newt before it was caught.

But never mind; I sat there in perfect peace, composing a poem on 'The Sussex Newt,' which I find, by the way, is strangely like any other newt, only fatter. Nothing marred the dreaming solitude of the Downs save only the black dog shaking his large wet frame all over me, and the greyhound plunging playfully about the pond, and the mastiff leaping affectionately on my back or lovingly worrying my hat, and the Irish terrier pursuing the one last solitary sheep with wild cries into the distance. . . .

There is something about a crowd of dogs.

In the late evenings the inhabitants take their daily exercise; the game is for everyone to concentrate in the square and pretend to be gossiping, so that the dogs may begin to have fights and commit crimes; then everyone rushes about in a masterful way with large sticks, pretending to stop the dogs. But the rule seems to be that no owner must ever interfere with his own dog, so that the game is often kept up for quite a long time. Special paraphernalia are, of course, required for this purpose; a special flock of hens is kept close to the road; the smallest child in the village is urged across the square with a jug of beer in order that the mastiff may try to upset it; herds of cows, frisky horses and mean men on bicycles are hired (I suspect) to proceed backwards and forwards through the square in order that all the dogs may fly at them and bark ferociously.

When I went down there my friend Robert and his wife had only been living at Pinchinhoe a few weeks and they had kept themselves fairly free from the dog-fever, their only pet being a small kitten about nine inches long, called Azalea (Zally' for short). Fortunately for me, however, Mrs. R.'s first puppy arrived by the same train as myself, so they sent the pony-cart to meet

us. The puppy was about eight inches long, and Mrs. R. said that it was a 'crossed Irish terrier.' Which part of it was Irish terrier was never revealed, but about the origin of the rest of it there was very little doubt. When I say that, I mean that he was obviously something between a pug, a poodle, a spaniel and a dachshund, especially the last. I suggested that he should be called Hyphen, a pretty name. Mrs. R. objected to that, and eventually, by a delicate compromise, he was christened Siphon, because of the curious sound he made when sucking up liquid.

Still, he was a nice little dog, and our hearts went out to him. Personally, of course, I held rather aloof, but he took up a good deal of our time. Up to this point Robert had been doing some very useful work and his health was steadily improving. From that day he began to go back. It was generally agreed that little Siphon would be a pleasant companion for little Zally; in fact everybody agreed about this except Siphon and Zally. When Siphon saw Zally he made a fierce noise, and Zally fled out into the night, concealing herself in an impenetrable wood-yard. In the small hours, when Siphon had been tenderly put to bed with his hotwater bottle, Zally walked round to the back and irritated a sheep-dog, who gave tongue without ceasing for one hour. The noise of the sheep-dog infuriated a young foxhound called Bachelor, who is being 'walked' by the people next door, and he bayed profoundly at intervals of twenty seconds, until Siphon awoke and began to whimper like a small child.

Siphon spent the rest of the night in Robert's bed. Zally spent the whole of the next day at 'The Green Cow.'

Two days later Robert's dog, little Vivian, arrived, a pure-bred Sealyham with a pedigree many times longer than himself. The idea of little Vivian was that he would be a nice companion for

little Siphon. Unfortunately he was only six inches long, and he had the nervous temperament that sometimes goes with aristocratic and over-refined natures. When he saw Siphon he made a noise the like of which I have never heard before, something between the cry of a baby, the cry of a wolf-hound, the cry of a parrot, the cry of a cat and the cry of a young steam-siren. As I write he is still making it. He has demoralized the whole household. Little Siphon, who was quite at home, has begun again his peculiar whimper; little Zally, who had returned repentant from "The Green Cow,' sits and mews with increasing irritation in a dark corner; outside, in the night, the melancholy baying of the fox-hound, the awesome howling of the sheep-dog and the distant barking of innumerable dogs, hounds and puppies all over the South Downs make a weird and tragic chorus to the scene.

All work has been abandoned; Robert is worn to a shadow; we make no serious attempt to have regular meals ourselves; only now and then we snatch a hasty sandwich or drink a very strong drink. We have divided the night into watches, and at precise intervals Siphon and Vivian are given a new hot bottle or plied with steaming bowls of hot milk. When this is done they slowly swell like penny balloons, and one waits for them to explode with loud reports; but for a moment or two the tumult is stilled. At five o'clock the whole household stands to arms. . .

Favoritism is rife. Robert says that Siphon is ill-bred and brusque in manner, and so he is, while Mrs. Robert makes no secret of her contempt for the foppish effeminacy of little Vivian. They labor with impartial devotion in the service of both, but I am afraid that relations are strained.

As for me, I no longer hold aloof. There is something about dogs . . .

The Literary Section of the Soviet Commissariat for Education, directed by Lunacharsky, has organized a competition for the best story for children. These are the conditions with which authors must comply who aspire to teach the young Bolshevist idea how to shoot not, of course in a literal, military sense:

The children's tales must be devoid of all elements of superstition, and must contain no mention of angels, fairies, evil genii, and so forth.

Kings and Princes must be described as oppressors of the masses, as they are in reality.

The Literary Section suggests as subjectmatter for such tales the future of mankind, the achievements of science, technical skill, and industry.

Tales describing the life of the working masses will be especially welcome.

All mythological or religious subjects, God, and the Devil must be carefully avoided.

Alas for the Russian children! What

a fate to grow up without fairy stories! Never to make the acquaintance of that uncompromising supporter of absolute monarchy, the fairy-story king, the delectable despot who never takes off his crown. Mother Goose, Æsop, Hans Christian Andersen, and

JAPANESE ART IN ENGLAND

THE visit of the Crown Prince of Japan to the galleries of London has evoked an indignant chorus from certain art critics because he found so little of the art of his own country there. The National Gallery, as would be expected, has the least. At the British Museum that vast storehouse of everything-under-the-sunhe found collections of Japanese paintings on silk, illuminations, and numerous prints.

The museum authorities who guided him on his tour of the collections, were at some pains to point out traces of Oriental influence wherever they appeared. He paused before a Whistler at the National Gallery where, says the Manchester Guardian, the presence of

Whistler 'would have seemed almost as incredible to the last generation as the presence of a Crown Prince of Japan.' His attention was especially drawn to Holbein's portrait of Christiania of Denmark and to Occello's famous battle-piece, for their semi-Oriental characteristics.

The proposal to make the Prince an LL.D. of Cambridge University where, of course, all ceremonial is still conducted in Latin, has led to mild perplexity. A writer in the London Observer remarks: 'I shall be interested to see what is the Latin version of Hirohito.'

ANOTHER CLEOPATRA

AGE has indubitably withered and custom somewhat staled the far-frominfinite variety of 'Cléopatre' as reconstructed for the nth time by M. A. Ferdinand Herold. Although unanimously accepted by the Comité de Lecture of the Comédie Française, the first production in Paris aroused little interest save what inevitably attaches to a fresh effort to deal with a very

much over-worked figure. M. Herold has dipped into his Suetonius, clipped gingerly from Plutarch, written a few footnotes to Shakespeare, and all to very little purpose.

The management of the Comédie Française would appear to have been afflicted with misgivings as to the play, which was staged with old scenery, adapted for the purpose in hand. French critics have nothing good to say of it.

FRENCH CLASSICAL STUDIES

A COMPLETE collection of Greek and Latin authors, with French translations, is to be issued by the Société des Belles Lettres. The new edition will fill the place that the Loeb Classical Library has so agreeably taken in English-speaking countries, meeting a need which has been very real in French scholarship for a long time. Each text will be edited by a competent authority and will include the results of the very latest research. It is planned to issue about 300 works within fifteen years.

A TRAGIC CHRISTOPHER SLY

CHRISTOPHER SLY, the drunken victim of the jest by which he is persuaded to believe himself a noble, in the Induction to Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew, has been revived as a figure of modern Italian drama by Signor Forzano, who transforms the slight fantasy of Shakespeare into a mordantly bitter. tragedy in three acts.

'Sly,' in Signor Forzano's play, is a ne'er-do-well vagrant poet, who believes himself misunderstood and is in search of sympathy and love. To mask his unhappiness, he frequents all the taverns and ale-houses of London, and is a famous drinker. The scene opens at the Falcon Tavern in Fleet Street, at the beginning of the seventeenth century.