One wet night I was coming home through Hyde Park from working late on a job in Paddington. Pain and wind and swept boughs and sickly gasights on the wet asphalt; and poles nad scaffolding about in preparation for the Jubilee celebration. I had sent a couple of attempts on the subject to the Bulletin, and had got encouragement in Answer to Correspondents. And now the idea of "Sons of the South" or "Song of the Republic" came. I wrote it and screwed up courage to go down to the Bulletin after hours, intending to chop the thing into the letter box, but just as I was about to do so, or rather making up my mind as to whether I’d shove it in, or take it home and have another look at the spelling and the dictionary, the door opened suddenly and a haggard woman stood there. And I shoved the thing into her hand and got away round the comer, feeling something like a person who had been nearly caught on the premises under suspicious circumstances and was not safe yet by any means.I hadn’t the courage to go near the Bulletin often again, but used to lie awake at night and get up very early and slip down to the nearest news agent’s on Thursday mornings, to have a pep at the Bulletin, in fear and trembling and half furtively, as if the news - agent - another hard - life woman, by the way, named Mrs. Furlong--would guess my secret. At last, sick with disappointment, I went to the office and saw Mr. Archibird, who seemed surprised, encouraged me a lot and told me that they were holding the "Song of a Re- public" over for a special occasion--Eight Hours Day.