Excited groups gather about rude circles scratched in the mud, and there is talk of “pureys,” and “reals,” and “aggies,” and “commies,” and “fen dubs!” There is a rich click about the bulging pockets of the boys, and every so often in school time something drops on the floor and rolls noisily across the room. When Miss Daniels asks: “Who did that?” the boys all look so astonished. Who did what, pray tell? And when she picks up a marble and inquires: “Whose is this?” nobody can possibly imagine whose it might be, least of all the boy whose most highly-prized shooter it is. At this season of the year, too, there is much serious talk as to the exceeding sinfulness of “playing for keeps.” The little boys, in whose thumbs lingers the weakness of the arboreal ape, their ancestor, and who “poke” their marbles, drink in eagerly the doctrine that when you win a marble you ought to give it back, but the hard-eyed fellows, who can plunk it every time, sit there and let it go in one ear and out the other, there being a hole drilled through expressly for the purpose. What? Give up the rewards of skill? Ah, g'wan! The girls, even to those who have begun to turn their hair up under, are turning the rope and dismally chanting: “All in together, pigs in the meadow, nineteen twenty, leave the rope empty,” or whatever the rune is. It won't be long now. It won't be long. “For lo; the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; the fig-tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines, with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise my love, my fair one and come away.” THE SONG OF SOLOMON.