Dear Sir,—Henry Anderson, who is an applicant for my temporarily vacant situation as working gardener, assistant hedger and ditcher and superintending odd man (single-handed), has referred me to you as to his character and qualifications, stating that he was in your employment—I gather some nine years ago—for a time. You will therefore, I trust, forgive me if I take the liberty of asking you to be good enough to answer the following questions concerning him and his wife. He calls himself twenty-five, married, with no family.
(1) Was he in your employment?
(2) When?
(3) Is he twenty-five?
(4) Is he married?
(5) Has he no family?
(6) Is he strictly sober? (These word are to be taken quite literally.)
(7) His wife ditto?
(8) Is he decent and morally respectable, careful in his habits and guarded in his language?
(9) His wife ditto?
(10) Is he honest and reliable?
(11) His wife ditto, and not one to answer back?
(12) Are they both used to the country, contented in their sphere, interested in rural surroundings, fond of children, fond of animals, fond of fruit?
(13) Is he strong and healthy, neither shortsighted nor deaf? (I have suffered much from both.)
(14) His wife ditto, and always tidy?
(15) Does he stammer? (I have been greatly inconvenienced by this.)
(16) His wife ditto?
(17) Does he squint? (This has often been a trial to me.)
(18) His wife ditto?
(19) Is lie active, industrious, enthusiastic and an early riser, good-natured, equable and obliging?
(20) His wife ditto, and no gossip?
(21) Is he a heavy smoker?
(22) His wife ditto?
(23) Is he well up to the culture of vegetables, the upraising of flowers and the education of fruit, both outside and under glass?
(21) Is he capable of feeding hens, driving a motor, overhauling a pianola, carving or waiting at table if required?
(25) To what Church do they belong? What are their favourite recreations? Do they sing in the choir? if so, is he tenor or baritone; his wife ditto?
(26) Are they on good terms with each other, and no domestic bickering?
(27) What wages did you pay him?
(28) Why (on earth) did you part with him?
An immediate answer will greatly oblige. I enclose an addressed envelope.
I am, Your obedient Servant,
Julius Pitherby.
Letter II.
Myself to Julius Pitherby, Esq.,
Manor Grange, Pimhaven.
Dear Sir,—I thank you for your letter. The answers to questions (1), (2), (25), (27) and (28) are in the affirmative. With regard to the others you have, no doubt unwittingly, put me in rather a dilemma. You see, Anderson left my service when he was sixteen and I have not heard of him since, though it is true that I did see his father (who belongs to this neighbourhood) on the roof of the church one day last month. I might make shots at them, of course, but I dare say it is better to leave it. I am interested to learn that Henry is married.
I am,
Yours faithfully, &c.
Letter III.
Myself to Henry Anderson,
c/o Ezekiel Anderson, Slater, Crashie, Howe.
My Dear Henry,—I do not think if I were you I should accept Mr. Julius Pitherby's offer of a job. Your marriage may, of course, have been—I hope it was—the occasion of your turning over a new leaf. Still, I doubt if you are quite the paragon he is looking for, and I am afraid that you may find him a little inquisitive.
I am,
Yours faithfully, &c.
The Power of the Press.
Once upon a time there was a quiet respectable little spell-of-hot-weather, with no idea of being a nuisance or doing more than warm people up a bit, and make the summer really feel like summer, and add attraction to seaside resorts. Directly it reached our shores every one began to be happy; and they would have gone on being so but for the sub-editors, who cannot leave well alone but must be for ever finding adjectives for it and teasing it with attentions. Just then they were particularly free to turn their attentions to the kindly visitor, because there was no good murder at the moment, and no divorce case, and no spicy society scandal, and therefore their pages were in need of filling. And seeing the little spell-of-hot-weather they gave way to their passion for labelling everything with crisp terseness—or terse crispness (I forget which)—and called it a "heat wave," and straightway began to give it half the paper, and with huge headings such as, "The Heat-Wave," "Heat-Wave Still Growing," "80 in the Shade," "How to Support such Weather," so that the nice little spell-of-hot-weather was gradually goaded into the desire really to justify this excitement.
"Very well," it said, "I never meant to be more than 80 in the shade and a pleasant interlude in the usual disappointing English June; but since they're determined I'm a nuisance I'll be one. I'll go up to 84."
And it did. It reached 84; and the wise people who like warmth said, "How splendid! If only it would go on like this for ever! Not hotter—just like this."
But the sub-editors were not satisfied. They had got hold of a good thing and they meant to run it for all it was worth. So "Hotter than Ever" they sprawled across their papers, there still being nothing of real public interest to distract them, "Hotter To-morrow," "Heat-Wave Growing," "Terrible Heat."
And now the spell-of-hot-weather was stimulated to be really vicious. "I call Heaven to witness," it said, "that my sole desire was to be genial and beneficial. But what can one do when one is taunted and provoked, abused and nick-named like this? Very well then, I'll go up to 90!"
And it did. The sub-editors were delighted. "Appalling Heat," they wrote, "Tropical England," "Gasping London," "Heat-Wave Breaks all Records," "Hottest Day for Fifty Years," "No Signs of Relief."
And even the people who like warmth began to grumble a little—hypnotised by the Press. But the spell-of-hot-weather had had enough. "I'll go somewhere else, where I'm really welcome and they don't have contents bills," it said, and it crossed the Channel to Paris. It looked back to the English shores, deserted now by the happy paddlers and bathers and baskers of the days before. "I'm sorry to leave you," it said, "but don't blame me." Yet the public did.
"The downpour of rain, which lasted for an hour, was preceded by a remarkable shower of hailstones, some of which were almost as large as marbles, and were as hard as ice."
Yorkshire Herald.
And then came the rain, some drops of which were as wet as water.
"The tussle between Mr. Matheson and Mr. Anderson was carried to the 18th green, where the latter stood one."—Daily Record.
"Mine's a gin and ginger," said Mr. Matheson, as he holed the winning put.
