While passing through Lambeth Gardens
yesterday towards the hour of dusk I observed a crow with
one leg sitting beside the duck-pond and apparently lost in
thought. There was no doubt that the bird was of the
species pulex hibiscus, an order which is becoming
singularly rare in the vicinity of the metropolis. Indeed,
so far as I am aware, the species has not been seen in
London since 1680. I may say that on recognising the bird I
drew as near as I could, keeping myself behind the
shrubbery, but the pulex hibiscus which apparently caught a
brief glimpse of my face uttered a cry of distress and flew
away.
I am, sir,
Believe me,
yours, sir,
O.Y. Botherwithit.
(Ret'd Major Burmese Army.);
Distressed by these repeated failures, I sank back to a lower level
of English literary work, the puzzle department. For some reason
or other the English delight in puzzles. It is, I think, a part of
the peculiar school-boy pedantry which is the reverse side of their
literary genius. I speak with a certain bitterness because in puzzle
work I met with no success whatever. My solutions were never
acknowledged, never paid for, in fact they were ignored. But I
append two or three of them here, with apologies to the editors of
the Strand and other papers who should have had the honour of
publishing them first.
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