The fancy of my small friend was quite captivated by what he called "playing hide-and-go-seek with poems." "What fun he has, watching her find them and not letting her know he hid them!" he exclaimed. Later in the season I went to spend a few days at the country home of his parents. Early one morning, from my window, I espied the little boy, stealthily moving about under the trees in the adjacent apple orchard. At breakfast he remarked to me, casually, "It's nice in the orchard--all apple blossoms." "Will you go out there with me?" I asked. "P'aps not to-day," he made reply. "But," he hazarded, "you could go by yourself. It's nice," he repeated; "all apple blossoms. Get close to the trees, and smell them." It was a pleasant plan for a May morning. I lost no time in putting it into practice. Involuntarily I sought that corner of the orchard in which I had seen my small friend. Mindful of his counsel, I got close to the apple blossoms and smelled them. As I did so I noticed a crumpled sheet of paper in a crotch of one of the trees. I no sooner saw it than I seized it, and, smoothing it out, read, written in a primary-school hand:-- "The rose is red, The violet blue, Sugar is sweet, And so are you." Need I say that I had scarcely read this before I entered upon an exhaustive search among the other trees? My amused efforts were well rewarded. Between two flower-laden branches I descried another "poem," in identical handwriting:-- "A birdie with a yellow bill Hopped upon the window-sill, Cocked his shining eye and said 'Ain't you 'shamed, you sleepy-head!'" In a tiny hollow I found still another, by the same hand:-- "'T was brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe." As I went back to the house, bearing my findings, I met my little boy friend. He tried not to see what I carried. "I gathered these from the apple trees," I said, holding out the verses. "They are poems." He made no motion to take the "poems." His eyes danced. But neither then did he say nor since has he said that the verses were his; that he was the Orlando who had caused them to grow upon the trees. Another child of my acquaintance, a little girl, I discovered in an even sweeter game for "playing alone." She chanced to call upon me one afternoon just as I was taking from its wrappings an _édition de luxe_ of "Pippa Passes." Her joy in the exquisite illustrations with which the book was embellished even exceeded mine. "Is the story in the book as lovely as the pictures?" she queried. "Yes," I assured her. Then, at her urgent request, I told her the tale of the "little black- eyed pretty singing Felippa"; of her "single day," and of her singing that "righted all again" on that holiday in Asolo. The child was silent for a moment after I had finished the story. "Do you like it?" I inquired. "Um--yes," she mused. "Let me look at the pictures some more," she asked, with sudden eagerness.