"The very Devil's in the moon for mischief: There's not a day, the longest, not the twenty-first of June, Sees half the mischief in a quiet way On which three single hours of moonlight smile." At my age, alas one no longer gets into mischief, either by moonlight or at midsummer, and yet to-day all the tricksey spirits of the invisible world are supposed to be abroad-tangling the horses' manes, souring the milkmaid's cream, setting lovers by the ears. Some such frisky Puck stirs even peaceable middle-aged blood at this season to mild little secret sins, such as beginning a diary in which to...