"Shaky as to their grammar," says Jack, "and sadly in want of a dictionary!"
"Would you like a grammatical one," I ask, "and a properly spelt one? I don't say it's a particularly good one."
"Good heavens!" says Jack, leaning forward. "Nell is,—yes—no—yes, she is positively blushing!"
"I am not!" I say, looking at them all steadily. "No one ever accused me of such a thing before!"
"Then, to what," asks Alice, laughing, "may we ascribe this sudden access of colour? Heat, modesty, shame, or pride at having made a rhyme? for I do believe you have."
"Heat!" I say, shortly; "how we shall broil in church!'
"Now then," says Jack, "we must not permit the first literary effort of the family to die for want of air, let's have it."
"It is not much of it," I say, apologetically, "but our riddles and epitaphs were running so low that I thought it was high time some new ones were invented, and anything is better than nothing, you know! Here it is—
Helen Adair,
Cruelly slain in the Flower of her
Youth and Beauty, by
Amberley's Nags.
P.S.—Amberley's Nags were the only horses visible at
her funeral, for she died a Pauper.'"
"Ha! ha! ha!" goes Jack. "'Youth and beauty,' first-rate that."
"And Amberley does nag at Nell shamefully," says Alice.
"And you all say," I put in, standing up for my bantling, "that my extravagant tastes will bring me to want some day, do you not? Only I don't see how I can ever be very lavish on nothing."
