116 A GARDEN DIARY 
MarRCcH I, 1900 
nae LY we need no satirist to point out the 
ironies of life, for they are for ever with us! 
Here is the latest in my own experience :— 
After all my arrangements, my care about 
telegrams, my determination not to be defrauded 
of even half an hour’s satisfaction, I have heard 
at last of the relief of Ladysmith from a child 
by the roadside; from a child? nay but from a 
baby, a smudgy-faced cottage infant, that could 
barely walk, and certainly was quite unable to 
talk! It happened in this wise. I was hurry- 
ing along the lane on my way to take the 
train for Godalming, having waited till the 
last minute in hopes of a telegram which 
never came. My morning papers had told 
me nothing, or nothing beyond vague surmises, 
which I was quite competent to provide for 
myself; consequently I was famishing for more 
substantial fare. I had nearly reached the 
village, and was hurrying round the last corner. 
Suddenly out of one of the cottage doors came 
