As I was walking down Duncan street last Sunday evening, I came across a tree that had a face: eyes, a nose, and a mouth affixed to its bark. I paused to admire it and take a picture—but at this point I was accosted by a couple of children who were hanging out in the yard of the house to my left. Fortunately, being accosted by children happens to number among my favourite hobbies. So we struck up a conversation. They asked me how old I was.—Twenty, I replied; they asked, as though it followed naturally,—Are you married?—No, I said.—Why not? they said. You’re twenty years old, you’re tall, you have long and luscious hair (perhaps they said ‘flowing’ instead of ‘luscious’, I don’t remember): what are you waiting for?—I told them that I felt I was in no particular hurry, that I have so many other things in my life occupying my attention, and that——Nonsense, they said. Here’s what you should do. The next girl you see, you go up to her and say, “Hello! My name is”–what’s your name, again?—Alan.—“Hello! My name is Alan! Do you want to get married?”—Wouldn’t that seem a bit abrupt? I said.—I guess so, said the one.—Hey! said the other, no, do this: The next girl you see, give her some flowers, and then she’ll like you and ask you to marry her!—I told them I liked this plan better.