Ww. V.

contain for crystal-gazers! Among the gold
and green, the rose and blue, you see the
dwarfed reflection of your own trees and
your own home floating up into the sunshine.
These are your possessions, your surroundings
—so lovely, so fairylike in the bubble; in
reality so prosaic and so inadequate when
one considers the rent and rates. To W.
V. the bubbles are like the wine of the poet
—<full of strange continents and new
discoveries,”

Flower of the sloe
When chance annuls the worlds we blow,
Where does the soul of beauty in them go?

“Tell me a story of a little girl who lived
in a bubble,” she asked when she had tired
of creating fresh microcosms.

I lifted her on to my knee, and as she
settled herself comfortably she drew my right
arm across her breast and began to nurse it.

“Well, once upon a time —”

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