We were both sent back to bed, and that morning as a punishment we were not allowed into the dining-room until Father and Mother had finished their breakfast; and Angela, who often thinks quite clever things, said that we had better not do "Rabbits" again for a good long time. But after all it didn't matter much as the weather got a great deal colder, and I wore my jumper a lot, and so did Angela. * * * * * [Illustration: "LOOK 'ERE--THIS ARF-CROWN WON'T DO. IT AIN'T GOT NO MILLING ON ITS HEDGE." "BLIMY! NOR IT 'AS! I _KNEW_ I'D FORGOTTEN SOMEFINK."] * * * * * FLOWERS' NAMES. DAME'S DELIGHT. There was a Lady walked a wood; She never smiled, nor never could. One day a sunbeam from the South Kissed full her petulant proud mouth; She laughed, and there, beneath the trees, Fluttering in the April breeze, Spread tracts of blossom, green and white, Curtseying to the golden light-- The broken laugh of Dame's Delight. * * * * * FIRST LOVE AND LAST. [It is pointed out by a contemporary that the dressmaker's waxen model has quite lost her old insipid air. The latest examples of the modeller's art show the "glad eye" and features with which "any man might fall in love."] In the days when I started to toddle I loved with a frenzy sublime A dressmaker's beauteous model-- I think I was three at the time; She was fair in the foolish old fashion, And they found me again and again With my nose in an access of passion Glued tight to the pane. But I thought they were gone past returning Till Time should go back on his tracks, Those days of a child's undiscerning But fervent devotion to wax; Could a heart, though admittedly restive, Recapture that innocent mood At sixty next birthday? I'm blest if I thought that it could. But Art, ever bent on progression, Has taken the model in hand, And brought in the line of succession A figure more pleasingly planned; Her eyes with the gladdest of glances, Her lips and her hair and her cheek Can puncture like so many lances A bosom of teak. * * * * * HARD TIMES FOR HEROINES. "Oh, Bertram," breathed Eunice as she glided into his arms, "if Ernest knew, what would he think?" At this point of my story I admit that I was held up. I myself couldn't help wondering how Ernest would regard the situation. He was a perfectly good husband and, personally, I preferred him to Bertram the lover. I might get unpopular with my readers, however, if they suspected this, so I continued:-- "Ernest can never appreciate you as I do, dearest," Bertram whispered hoarsely; "he is cold, hard, indifferent--"