The Man of the North, I sometimes think, had a Fairy Grandmother who was a robin; and perhaps she made a nest of fresh moss and put him in the green wood when he was a wee bairnie, so that he waxed wise in bird-lore without knowing it.

At all events, describe to him the cock of a head, the glance of an eye, the tip- up of a tail, or the sheen of a feather, and he will name you the bird.
Near-sighted he is, too, the Man of the North, but that is only for people.
The Square Baby and I have a new game.
I bought a doll's table and china tea-set in Buffington.

We put it under an apple-tree in the side garden, where the scarlet lightning grows so tall and the Madonna lilies stand so white against the flaming background.

We built a little fence around it, and every afternoon at tea-time we sprinkle seeds and crumbs in the dishes, water in the tiny cups, drop a cherry in each of the fruit-plates, and have a _the chantant_ for the birdies.

We sometimes invite an "invaleed" duckling, or one of the baby rabbits, or the peacock, in which case the cards read:-- _Thornycroft Farm_.
The pleasure of your company is requested at a _The Chantant_ Under the Apple Tree.
Music at five.
It is a charming game, as I say, but I'd far rather play it with the Man of the North; he is so much younger than the Square Baby, and so much more responsive, too.
{The scent of the hay: p92.jpg} Thornycroft Farm is a sweet place, too, of odours as well as sounds.