REPORT ON NO. 18 [The usual prizes were offered for

the best essays or stories written in words of one syllable on one of the following sub- jects: (a) a day at the seaside ; (b) a day in Paris; (c) a day at the races ; (d) a day in bed. Entries were limited to 30o words in length.] WE guess that, since we set it, it will be thought up to us to try to judge this test in the same terms. A real crowd went in for it, and the form on the whole was good. Most (more than five score) chose the day in bed, the sea (not quite three score) came next, and the race ones and the " chief town of France " (as one man put it) were some way in the rear. The bed ones— all but the few at the top—read much the same ; they all spoke of days made up of sleep, vast meals, much drink, and made nice by the smug thought of the rest of the world at work. The sea ones were less good ; there was much talk of Waves that Plash and Splash, of Gulls that Wheel, and of Bright Gold Sand that Gleams. We do not think that it was just the fact that we have small taste for the sea that made us find these dull. The race ones—of which there were few—were all good, save one ; and of the French ones there were at least ten that it was fun to read. Four brats (one said to be no more than five) sent in tries ; they were all quite good, but we could not be sure if they were real brats or just jokes.

We thought one of the French ones stood out from the rest. Next came three bed ones and one race one, all well up to the mark for a prize. Since we have some cash in hand from past times when we gave no more than one, we can give a prize of one pound and twelve pence to two of them, and a prize of half that sum to the two next.

First Prize.

A DAY IN PARIS.

My wife said: "Now our son Dick is ten we will have a day in France that he may see how strange folk live, and speak his French that we pay so dear for him to learn." So we went.

"Tell him where we want to go," said my wife to Dick when we took a cab. My wife said the Gowk could not speak his own tongue, which was odd. A man ran up: "Come, I show you fine things, all the fun of the town. Nice cards for your friends." My wife gave one look.

"It's not fit for the child."

And we left.

We found the Louvre. But as soon as we were in we saw a white girl with no arms. My wife said:

" It's not fit for the child."

And we left.

We had heard that French meals were good. They gave us a dish, the taste was good though strange to us, but when Dick told us it was frogs' legs (the bad boy, he knew that word), we had no more wish for it. Then a man came in, I was not quite sure if the girl with him was his wife, it was such a loud kiss she gave him. My wife said: " It's not fit for the child." And we left.

We went to a shop. My wife said: " Sluts to wear such clothes!'

And we left.

" It must be time to have some fun," said Dick. We came to a large hall. Dick bought a doll which he did not show to his Ma. NV ell. I should not like to tell you all the girls had not got on.

I r's not . . ." said my wife as she fell to the ground.

And we left. BEATRICE KIDD.

Second Prize. A DAY IN BED. You long at tunes, don't you for a day in bed? You think how n would soothe those tired linibs and that brain which works too hard. You feel you must have some rest from the dull round of tasks which face you day by day: the same trains, the same times, the same friends, the same old work. How tired you grow of it all! How much you long for a day in bed—all day—when you need not think of all these things which tie you down—with no need to dress, nor to rush down the road to catch the train, nor to walk with the mob of strange men and girls over the same old bridge.

Man, you know not what you ask! I know now, for I have been in bed for ten times ten days. It was good at first. But how it drags! The next day and the next and still the next, creeps on its snail like pace from hour to hour. To write; to read; to eat; to sleep. Or not to sleep—to dream. Aye, there's the rub! To dream of when once more one can live the life of a man. For has it not been said that in the sweat of his brow shall man eat bread, and that if a man work not, nor then shall he eat? No! Cast- off dull sloth, my friend. Pray no more for days in bed. And if you still long for such a day, think of those of us whose one hope is that once more we shall be able to walk and run, and live as a man should, and take our place in the proud world of toil. KENNETH H0RNE.

Second Prize. " THOSE DEAD SHEETS."*

Down in the town the clock struck six. Six hours gone thought Bunk—six hours less to live. All right if one could be like the pines up on the slope there; they had roots. But had they? He caught sight of his face in the glass. My God what lines! Round the eyes; on the nose; lines—lines. How old one got—years of this —and then years of what? That was it—worms! He turned round, and felt sick.

The clock struck eight. There was rain in the sky. Queer how one thought of rain! Streams of light blobs in space and time? Or plant food? Or just H,0? He did not know. Still one could not get up when it was wet. Why not spend the day here? But what with? If one gave up May and Pearl, could one put both out of mind? The sight came to his mind's eye. Pearl—pink, and too pert! And May! Sweet—but a tart.

He leant down and was sick at the thought.

I'm here he thought to read and think—think, not sleep. This rain shan't stop thought. Thought in bed—all day. And at the end, new life, or the dead round? He leant for a book. Which should it be? Kant or Jung? Jung was of the earth—Kant of the soul! The thought of Jung came in front of his mind. He fought it—but Jung came back. Jung made one sick—made one foul. Kant made one good.

He chose Jung. Down in the town the clock struck ten.

P. M. GEDGE.

[* Dedicated without permission or apologies to Mr. —Id—s H—xl—y.]

Consolation Prize.

A DAY AT THE RACES.

There are some who say it is good fun to lounge on the lawns. There are some who talk of the lure of the crowd, of the charm of the gowns, of the thrill of the packed stands. All this is, of course, just hot air. The fact is that if you win, the day is fine, and if you lose the day is dud.

The fun and the charm and the lure and the thrill hangs on where you fix the x on your race card. It hangs on that wait by the Tote to see if your draw is lush or lean.

Some folk like the name of a horse to have a nice sound. A lot of nice cash goes west on nice names. For my part, give me a horse with feet that can fly and I do not care if its name is Slurk.

At the back of it all is the hoarse bawl of stout throats: the call of the odds. The prance of proud colts and mares. The maze of hopes and tips and certs and form and tic and tac and Best of the Day in large type. A splash of gay caps and which one will bob to the front first and stay there. A neck, the wrong neck, and ten pounds taunts your soul. A neck, the right neck, and ten times ten pounds flaunt your fate.

Good day? Bad day? Who can say? Luck, the jade, is at the post. She is decked in one of those gay caps and we, poor dupes, just love to try and pick which one. R. PADLEY.

Consolation Prize.

A DAY IN BED.

How I did hate it!

I had a slight cold : I did not want to stay in bed, but my wife made me. She said I had 'flu. I knew I had not, but to please her I stayed there. It was vile. In the first place I did not get the post till ten, or The Times till twelve. For my first meal I had one piece of cold toast and a cup of tea. I could have done with two eggs and a good plate of ham. I found it hard to hold my cup so that I could drink at all, and the toast crumbs irked and pricked me all day long. At ten to one I stole out of bed and might have got dressed, but June' heard me move, dashed up and sent me back.

Then the cat was sick close to my bed.

For lunch I had beef tea, quite cool by the time I got it, and there was no salt. Still, for the sake of peace, I took it. Then I tried to sleep. Not a wink did I get: the B.B.C. (from the next flat) saw to that. Tea at four was all right, but I felt it hard that I could not smoke—June won't have it in our room. June then went out, and I tried to write a few notes, but my Swan pen ran out of ink, so I tried to read, but the lamp bulb soon failed, and from five to eight I just lay and thought. I had some bread and milk at nine, and then I did go to sleep.

I should not have thought that, pain barred, one could have