"That's not quite so bad as usual," said Napoleon condescendingly, toying meanwhile with the lash of an old dog-whip he had just "boned" out of the harness-room. Priscilla beamed gratefully upon her critic, and proceeded-- "_He rides him forth across the sand_----" "Who rides whom?" cried Napoleon. "Didn't the fool ride a horse?" "It means himself," said Priscilla meekly. "Then why doesn't _it_ say so?" cried the critic triumphantly, tapping his boot with the "boned" dog-whip just like any ordinary lord of creation in presence of his inferiors. "It's poetry," explained Priscilla timidly. "It's silly!" retorted Napoleon, judicially and finally. Priscilla resumed her reading in a lower and more hurried tone. She knew that she was skating over thin ice. "_He rides him forth across the sand, Upon a stealthy steed._" "You mean 'stately,' you know," interrupted Napoleon--somewhat rudely, Priscilla thought. Yet he was quite within his rights, for Priscilla had not yet learned that a critic always knows what you mean to say much better than you do yourself. "No, I don't mean 'stately,'" said Priscilla, "I mean 'stealthy,' the way a horse goes on sand. You go and gallop on the sea-shore and you'll find out." "I shan't. I haven't got any sea-shore," said Napoleon. "But do hurry. I've listened quite a pennyworth now." "_He rides him forth across the sand, Upon a stealthy steed, And when he sails upon the sea, He plays upon a reed!_" "Great soft _he_ was," cried Napoleon Smith; "and if ever I hear you say that I did such a thing----" Priscilla hurried on more quickly than ever. "_In all the world there's none can do The deeds that he hath done: When he hath slain his enemies, Then he comes back alone._" "That's better!" said Napoleon, nodding encouragement. "At any rate it isn't long. Now, give me my penny." "Shan't," said Priscilla, the pride of successful achievement swelling in her breast; "besides, it isn't Saturday yet, and you've only listened to three verses anyway. You will have to listen to ever so much more than that before you get a penny." "Hugh John! Priscilla!" came a voice from a distance. The great soldier Napoleon Smith instantly effected a retreat in masterly fashion behind a gooseberry bush. "There's Jane calling us," said Priscilla; "she wants us to go in and be washed for dinner." "Course she does," sneered Napoleon; "think she's out screeching like that for fun? Well, let her. I am not going in to be towelled till I'm all over red and scurfy, and get no end of soap in my eyes." "But Jane wants you; she'll be _so_ cross if you don't come." "_I_ don't care for Jane," said Napoleon Smith with dignity, but all the same making himself as small as possible behind his gooseberry bush. "But if you don't come in, Jane will tell father----"