"No, I can't even say prehaps." "Well, say I shall understand when I'm a big girl." "You'll understand when you're a big girl, Margery," I said solemnly. "Oh, I see." "That's right. Now then, what about going to sleep?" She was silent for a moment, and I thought I was safe. Then---- "Uncle, just tell me--why was 'at little boy crying vis morning?" "Which little boy?" "Ve one in 'e road." "Oh, that one. Well, he was crying because his uncle hadn't had any sleep all night, and when he tried to go to sleep in the afternoon----" "Say prehaps again." My first rejected contribution! I sighed and had another shot. "Well, then," I said gallantly, "it must have been because he hadn't got a sweet little girl of three to play with him." "Yes," said Margery, nodding her head thoughtfully, "'at was it." TO JOCK (ON CHOOSING A PROFESSION) When, Jock, I saw you, debonair and bland, Shin perilously up the cottage grand Piano, with the bread-knife in your hand;-- When I observed your friendly little stare, Your guileless baby face, your general air Of "Golly, how on earth did I get _there_?"-- When I remarked how cheerfully you crashed Down on the tea-things, not the least abashed To see the same (_my_ wedding present) _smashed_!-- Then as we wondered (having wiped the tea From off this waistcoat) "What's he going to be?" I knew at once why father thought, "The sea." * * * * * * There are who sit and languidly dictate Letters beginning "Yours of even date"-- Each one designed to rope in six-and-eight; Wherefore each letter carefully postpones The moment when the other party owns His case is badly dished by "_Rex v. Jones_." There are who daily in the safe retreat Of some Department gather round and bleat Scandal and Art, until it's time to eat; Return at three, and, having written "Dear Sir, your communication of last year Duly received and noted"--disappear. There are who do not hesitate to shove Their views of Babes and Budgets, Life and Love On paper--as it might be up above; Who, fearless fellows, are not found to flinch When some Proprietor essays to pinch Their holiest thoughts at eightpence for the inch. * * * * * * Such, Jock, as these are we who bear your name Content (well, almost) with the good old game Of moderate Fortune unrelieved by Fame. But there are Nobler Souls about the place, Such spirits as have built our Island Race, Heroes who must, who simply must, have _space_. 'Twas not to serve the pen that Nature gave To these their love of all that's large and brave; For Them an ampler life upon the Wave! * * * * * * So when your father (while I mop the tea) Says that he rather thinks you'll go to sea, Dear Jock, sweet Jock, your uncle _must_ agree. MORE CRICKET TO AN OLD BAT