own. Its saddle and bridle adorned a limb of the oak.

The song went cheerfully on: —

“‘Much ado there was, God wot:

would love and she would not;

said, “Never man was true.”

He said, “None was false to you.”‘“

“Give you good-day, reverend sir!” I called. “Art conning next Sunday’s hymn?”

Nothing abashed, Master Jeremy Sparrow gently shook off the squirrels, and getting to his feet advanced to meet us.

“A toy,” he declared, with a wave of his hand, “a trifle, a silly old song that