“—as straight as _pokers_,” Bruno firmly repeated. “Then oo must clasp oor hands—_so_. Then—‘Why hasn’t oo brushed oor hair? Go and brush it _toreckly_!’ Then—‘Oh, Bruno, oo mustn’t dog’s-ear the daisies!’ Did oo learn _oor_ spelling wiz daisies, Mister Sir?” “I want to hear about that Boy’s _Birthday_,” I said. Bruno returned to the story instantly. “Well, so this Boy said ‘Now it’s my Birthday!’ And so—I’m tired!” he suddenly broke off, laying his head in Sylvie’s lap. “Sylvie knows it best. Sylvie’s grown-upper than me. Go on, Sylvie!” Sylvie patiently took up the thread of the story again. “So he said ‘Now it’s my Birthday. Whatever shall I do to keep my Birthday? All _good_ little Boys——” (Sylvie turned away from Bruno, and made a great pretence of whispering to _me_) “—all _good_ little Boys—Boys that learn their lessons quite perfect—they always keep their birthdays, you know. So of course _this_ little Boy kept _his_ Birthday.” “Oo may call him Bruno, if oo like,” the little fellow carelessly remarked. “It weren’t _me_, but it makes it more interesting.” “So Bruno said to himself ‘The properest thing to do is to have a Picnic, all by myself, on the top of the hill. And I’ll take some Milk, and some Bread, and some Apples: and first and foremost, I want some _Milk_!’ So, first and foremost, Bruno took a milk-pail——” “And he went and milkted the Cow!” Bruno put in. “Yes,” said Sylvie, meekly accepting the new verb. “And the Cow said ‘Moo! What are you going to do with all that Milk?’ And Bruno said ‘Please’m, I want it for my Picnic.’ And the Cow said ‘Moo! But I hope you wo’n’t _boil_ any of it?’ And Bruno said ‘No, _indeed_ I won’t! New Milk’s so nice and so warm, it wants no boiling!’” “It doesn’t want no boiling,” Bruno offered as an amended version. “So Bruno put the Milk in a bottle. And then Bruno said ‘Now I want some Bread!’ So he went to the Oven, and he took out a delicious new Loaf. And the Oven——” “—ever so light and so puffy!” Bruno impatiently corrected her. “Oo shouldn’t leave out so many words!” Sylvie humbly apologised. “—a delicious new Loaf, ever so light and so puffy. And the Oven said——” Here Sylvie made a long pause. “Really I don’t know _what_ an Oven begins with, when it wants to speak!” Both children looked appealingly at me; but I could only say, helplessly, “I haven’t the least idea! _I_ never heard an Oven speak!” For a minute or two we all sat silent; and then Bruno said, very softly, “Oven begins wiz ‘O’.” “_Good_ little boy!” Sylvie exclaimed. “He does his spelling _very_ nicely. _He’s cleverer than he knows!_” she added, aside, to _me_. “So the Oven said ‘O! What are you going to do with all that Bread?’ And Bruno said ‘Please——’ Is an Oven ‘Sir’ or ‘’m,’ would you say?” She looked to me for a reply. “_Both_, I think,” seemed to me the safest thing to say.