There was a young maiden whose thought Was so airy it couldn’t be caught; So what do you think? We gave her some ink, And captured her light-winged thought. Here is Jack’s last on Polly:— There’s a pert little poppet called Polly, Who frequently falls into folly! She’s a terrible tongue For a ‘creetur’ so young, But if she were dumb she’d be jolly! I helped Polly with a reply, and we delivered it five minutes later:— I’d rather be deaf, Master Jack, For if only one sense I must lack, To be rid of your voice I should always rejoice, Nor mourn if it never came back! And now good-night and good-bye until I am allowed to write you my own particular kind of letter. The girls and boys are singing round the camp-fire, and I must go out and join them in one song before we go to bed. Yours with love, now and always, BELL. _P.S._—Our ‘Happy Hexagon’ has become a sort of ‘Obstreperous Octagon.’ Laura and Scott Burton are staying with us. Scott is a good deal of a bookworm, and uses very long words; his favourite name for me at present is Calliope; I thought it was a sort of steam-whistle, but Margery thinks it was some one who was connected with poetry. We don’t dare ask the boys; will you find out? VI. CAMP CHAPARRAL, _July_ 13, 188–. STUDIO RAPHAEL. DEAR LITTLE SIS,—The enclosed sketches speak for themselves, or at least I hope they do. Keep them in your private portfolio, and when I am famous you can produce them to show the public at what an early age my genius began to sprout. At first I thought I’d make them real ‘William Henry’ pictures, but concluded to give you a variety. Can’t stop to write another line; and if you missed your regular letter this week you must not growl, for the sketches took an awful lot of time, and I’m just rushed to death here anyway. Love to mother and father. Your loving brother. JACK _P.S._—Polly says you need not expect to recognise that deer by his portrait, should you ever meet him, as no one could expect to get a _striking_ likeness at a distance of a half-mile. But, honestly, we have been closer than that to several deer. CHAPTER V THE FOREST OF ARDEN—GOOD NEWS ‘From the East to western Ind, No jewel is like Rosalind; Her worth, being mounted on the wind, Through all the world bears Rosalind; All the pictures, fairest lined, Are but black to Rosalind; Let no face be kept in mind, But the fair of Rosalind.’