(It's been in _People of Position, Mayfair Murmurs_, and
several other weeklies.) I'm standing in my potato-patch (my Allotment
toilette is finished off by a pair of _enthralling_ little hob-nailed
boots!) and I'm holding a rake and a hoe and a digging-fork in one
hand and a garden-hose in the other; there's a wheel-barrow beside me,
and I'm looking at the potato-plants with the _true_ Allotment smile,
my dearest. I sent a copy of this picky to Norty, and under it I wrote
those famous last words of some celebrated Frenchman (I forget whether
it was MOLIERE or MIRABEAU or NAPOLEON): "_Je vais chercher un grand
peut-etre!_"
Wee-Wee is frightfully worried about Bo-Bo being so overworked. He
used to be at the head of the Department for Telling People What to
Do, and he and his five hundred assistants were worked half dead;
and _now_ he's at the head of a still newer department, the one for
Telling People What They're _Not_ to Do, and, though he's eight
hundred clerks to help him, Wee-Wee says the strain is too great for
words. He goes to Whitehall at ten every day and comes back at three!
And then he has the Long-Ago treatment that's being used so much now
for war-frayed nerves.
Pages:
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26