THE BOY AND THE WILD 



AT the entrance to a London park, a merchant 

 humble-bee, flying home with her load, was caught in 

 a shower and flung to the ground. The showers of 

 autumn are chilly, and the poor insect lay paralysed 

 on her back, her legs feebly clawing the air, and she 

 accepted very gratefully the tip of a finger to climb 

 upon. Then there was a clatter of nailed boots, and 

 three or four boys came up of course, to sneer at 

 the sickly sentimentality that should help a stranded 

 " bumble-bee." Not at all. These lads of Camberwell 

 were genuinely sympathetic, and insisted on seeing 

 the waif safely to a sunny perch on which she might 

 recover from her shock. 



At the same time, we know a country parish that 

 is always scoured in every hedgerow for blackbirds' 

 eggs, for which the Sparrow Club has offered blood- 

 money. Even without that incentive there would be 

 hunting for nests, and even here and there that brutish 

 and senseless amusement indulged in of seeing how 

 many eggs you could hop upon blindfold. That 

 game, however, is rapidly dying out. We cannot 

 even remember definitely its name. Was it " blind 

 hookey," we wonder ? We can just remember having 

 seen the rules of it printed in a book of games de- 

 3" 



