wonders therefore that none of those who appear to be so much impressed with the advantage of sub-dividing a year of 364 days have not, so far as we are aware, suggested another plan for getting rid of the superfluous days. This could be done by using the week instead of the day as the unit of intercalation. We begin by allotting 364 days to the common year. We then add at the end of every fifth year (the date ending with 0 or 5) a special "leap" week. This in itself would make the year on the average too long. We therefore omit the "leap" week every fifty years, when the date ends in 25 or 75; and, further, we omit the week at every century which is divisible by 4 (the reverse of the Gregorian rule). The result is to add 71 weeks or 497 days in 400 years, thus making the average length of the year 365.2425 days, or exactly the same as the mean Gregorian year. The special Nature. week would probably be found a nuisance, but it would only come once in five years, and it has been seriously proposed to introduce four such weeks into every year! Of course, under this plan, the date of the equinox would wander eight days on either side of the mean date. At the sacrifice of simplicity it would be more correct to intercalate eleven weeks in each successive period of 62 years, at the intervals: 6,6,5, 6,6,5, 6,6,5, 6,5 years. By this rule the equinox would be kept within four days of the given date, while the mean length of a year would be slightly more accurate than in the Gregorian system. Such a variation from the mean date would not be likely to constitute a practical objection. The idea, however, is only suggested in order to illustrate the unexhausted possibilities which lie before the would-be calendar reformer. H. C. P. AT THE SIGN OF THE PLOUGH. 1. Who carried what peculiarity into 3. Who did not go to church on 4. "What the Italians call "Com plete the sentence. Answer: Regu- 5. What did the Englishman say 6. 7. 8. What feminine idiosyncrasy "is fruitful hot water for all parties"? Answer: What gentlemen like, the ladies don't. ("Mrs. Lirriper's Lodgings.") Vale? Who lived at Taunton Answer: The Hawkinses. ("Nicholas Nickleby.") Whom would the prospect of finding anybody out in anything have kept awake under the influence of henbane? Answer: Miggs. ("Barnaby Rudge.") 9. What ultimately became of the gentleman who labored under an erroneous view of the locality of his stomach? Answer: He was ultimately buried at Brixton. ("Martin Chuzzlewit.") 10. Who made a spectral attempt at 11. drollery, and in what colored spectacles? Answer: Mr. Peter Magnus. Blue and green. ("Pickwick Papers.") At what date was aptitude for business to be rewarded with a The Cornhill Magazine. bowl of punch? Answer: One of these days. (“Old Curiosity Shop.") 12. Who, in ordering dinner, expressly barred slugs? Answer: Bart Smallweed. ("Bleak House.") PRIMAVERA. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. James Miscom. Sir Eldred Handsaw. Lady Handsaw Bessie Miscom (James Miscom's Wife). Miss Captree. Mr. Hapgood (The Vicar). I. Photo The interior of a country cottage. Dishes, plates, and cups on shelves. Gaily-framed pictures on walls. graph of Mr. Asquith on chimney-piece. Bricks of floor still damp from morning scrubbing-brush. A saucepan simmers over a small, clear fire, at the bars of which a flat iron is heating. Bessie Miscom is busy with a clean shirt spread on the table. She is a pretty young woman of twenty-four, with bright eyes, cheeks, and hair. There is a sharp little knock. Shie seems to recognize it, casts a rapid glance over the room, smooths her apron, corrects her hair with a light touch, and opens the door to a young lady who is awaiting admission. The visitor is about twenty, tall, clad in very workmanlike tweeds, with an air of assured superiority that takes welcome for granted. Bessie Miscom curtseys, and wipes a brightly polished chair with her apron before offering it. Bessie: You must please excuse me being in a muddle-like, miss. Miss C. (with quite unaffected condescension): Your muddle might be a model to every young wife in the village, Bessie. Well, how is James? (Looks knowingly at the shirt) You mean to send him smart to the Poll to-morrow, if he is the wrong color, I see. Bessie (apologetically, and a little embarrassed): Men is that fullish, miss and only just across the road too! He won't be long now, miss, not if you want to speak wi' 'im. He's reglar to's meals. Miss C. (sniffs appreciatively at the saucepan): I don't wonder, Bessie. I do mostly manage to have a bit o' summut hot against he comes, miss. Miss C. (laughing): That's the way to manage them! Well, James is a man worth putting oneself out a bit for. Mr. Topskins was telling the Squire that there isn't a job on his farm that James can't do it; and show the man who ought to do it how to do it, too. There's the stuff of a first-class bailiff in him-but I've a poor opinion of men, Bessie. Bessie: You, miss! Well, to be sure! Well, between you and me, Bessie, I have. Of course, they're our masters and have got to provide for us and all that. But we have the common sense. I'd take your opinion, ten to one, against his. Bessic (blushing): You're very good, miss. But that ain't what James do think. Miss C.: Better for you both if he did. Now, Bessie, don't let me stop you. Let me see how you iron a shirt. Lady Handsaw is going to pick me up.-She was saying the other day how they want a practical man to save Sir Eldred some of the bother of that home farm of his. He hasn't so much time on his hands as he had, and (laughing and blushing) he's likely to have less. I wish he wasn't such a red-hot Tory! But-Ah, there she is! Good-bye, Bessie. Bessie (hurriedly and anxiously): Oh, I'm sure, miss, Sir Eldred would hear a word from you Miss C.: When we're married, he'll have to, Bessie. I'm on my promotion now. Well, you'll wish the Squire to come in on top, anyhow. She goes out and joins Lady Handsaw, who is interviewing the grocer's wife from her pony carriage. Lady H. (about fifty; active, decided, and genial): In with you, Georgie.-Send those things along with Thomas, Mrs. Figmeal. And don't forget the soap!— Well? Miss C. (shakes herself down comprehensively, and pulls her gloves up with some energy): Bad! Squire's like a bear with a sore head. The agent got at him the other day and insisted on his joining a Small Holders' Encouragement Society! (Both laugh) And reports are fishy. He's found out that there's an Anarchist Club in the village! James Miscom. About the best man in the place, all round-best workman, I mean. As for everything else, he's as bad as he can be. Chapel, teetotal -the Lord knows what. Then there's a mechanic of sorts from Slumbridge. And he's worse. And they've got hold of a couple of others. Good, steady fellows they were, regulars at the Red Lamb. And now they all four meet twice a week at James Miscom's. a penny each for a cup of coffee, and talk. Regular Radical salon, if you please. Lady H.: Pay you up to? I'm not in it, you villain. Well, he's no good at all to us as he is. If it wasn't for us and those Unionist women, we should have no more chance in the division thana dumbledore in a bee-hive. The whole fabric of society is breaking up. Don't laugh, you bad woman! Well, it is. Look at teetotalism spreading all over the length and the breadth of the British Isles like a burning fever, as our good doctor told us the other day, hand-in-hand with anarchy and rebellion. Now, do you know I never believed our agent before, when he plastered us all over with butter after last January. But Well, if I did, they weren't so nauseating as some I had to sit out. The worst kind of working-men, you know. There was one carneying, bumptious little beast I could have throttled with joy. Do pull up a moment and let me set myself to rights before we turn in. (Rectifies hat) There, will that do? Lady H. (derisively): Do! Don't you go and spoil him, Georgie. A private road through pasture takes them to an old Georgian house. Sir Eldred Handsaw comes down the steps to meet them. He is a fine specimen of English manhood, tall, strong, and straightforward. Sir Eldred: Halloa, Georgie! I was just going over. Well, mother, so you picked her up and brought her along. Miss C.: It's just as well I cut you off. Squire's unapproachable. If you'd gone pouring cold water on him, as you do, he'd have been seeing me in my coffin, as likely as not. Besides, he's due at Hepston at four, and half-adozen places afterwards. I wasn't let I prefer to be an oasis, thank you. You can retire to me when your electioneering simoons are intolerable. Miss C. (allows herself to be consoled in the orthodox way): Well, you are reposeful, I admit. But I shall have to work you up to active enthusiasm before next election. Sir Eldred (devoutly): Please God, Asquith will sit tight for the next five years. Miss C.: Will he? I suppose, then, you'll be pleased to learn that we're as good as beaten. It's all your fault! Why didn't you go about and speak? Sir Eldred: My mind has only room for one idea at a time. Miss C. (somewhat placated): I ever do get in, it won't be by way of Petticoat Lane. Miss C. (indignant): Indeed! So you turn your back on Our League, and your mother and me! You are unkind. (Shows signs of tears) Sir Eldred (interferes in the proper manner): Oh, you're all right, Georgie, you and mother. There's no intimidation and corruption as far as you're concerned. Blandishment and cajolery cover your field of operations. Bad enough, but that can't be helped, I'm afraid. But I'll be hanged if I'm so sure of some of the rest of you. Miss C. (blushing): Oh, the other side may be trusted to look sharp enough after that. (A bell rings) Luncheon, thank Heaven! II. The same evening. James Miscom's cottage. Tea things invitingly set out. Hot dripping toast. Glass jar with jam. Clean cloth. James Miscom sits looking gloomily into the fire. He is a powerful man, in laborer's clothes, with a heavy, masculine face, suggesting the surly goodnature of a bull. James: I can't think what's come to Traxall. Says I, "See you to-night, Jack." "Not to-night," he says, "James Miscom." Same as that. And there was Billings and Cox outside the Lamb, a-sniggering as I passed 'em! There's summut up. They ain't gone over, be 'em? It's going to be touch and go, this bout. Squire's changed a bit since last January. Then 'twas, "Please yerself about yer vote and you'll please me." And t'other day he meets me and he says, "Vote as you please, James Miscom. But if you vote for Hilboy, you're voting agin yourself. And so Billings I tell ee." So sharp he was. and Cox I don't say. But Traxall's sound stuff. Do you know aught about it, missus? Bessie: There, you eat your toast while it's hot, James. What odds is it to us what they do do? I don't like Traxall. Summut in his pocket for to blow us all up with, as like as not. I'd rather he stayed away, for me. James (looks at her sharply): Now, out wi' it. You do know what 'tis. I can see it in the face of ee. Now, I ain't agoing to stand no nonsense. You've been having words wi' 'un, I reckon. Bessie: Me words wi' 'un! I wouldn't demean myself! He came along for to say summut about to-night, and I told 'un you'd be a bit early, same as you said. James: Well? Bessie (hesitatingly): And Miss Georgie, she just looked in afore dinner-I forgot to tell ee-and got to praising you up, as you was fit for a bailiff's place if ever one was. And so you be, James, and if them yaller friends o' yourn was men, they'd see as you was one. James (sternly): Well? Bessie (confused and interruptedly): And summut about Sir Eldred-as she'll be Lady Handsaw at Easterand as how they was main put about to find some 'un as could look after the Home Farm, along o' his marrying. And I couldn't help saying, friendly like, as from what Miss Georgie she said, there warn't no doubt o' who 'twould be. And he were downright uncivil. "Oh, that's the way wi' him, is it?" he says, and off, wi' never another word. James (his face suddenly purple with rage): You said that, you! You! You went and gave your husband away that way! There, if I took stick to ee, 'twould be less than what you've bin |