Ww. V.

mother to substitute “the Ladies’’ for “ the’
Gorgons.” She did not like the sound of
the word; “it makes me,” drawing her
breath with a sort of shiver through her
teeth, “it makes me pull myself together.”
Once when she broke into a sudden laugh, for
sheer glee of living I suppose, she explained :
“Tam just like a little squirrel biting myself.”
Her use of the word “live” is essential
poetry; the spark “lives” inside the flint,
the catkins “live” in the Forest; and she
pointed out to me the “lines” down a
horse’s legs where the blood “lives.” A
sign-board on a piece of waste land caused
her some perplexity. It was not “ The pub-
lic are requested ” this time, but “ Forbidden
to shoot rubbish here.” Either big game or
small deer she could have understood ; but
— “Who wants to shoot rubbish, father?”

Have I sailed out of the trades into the
doldrums in telling of this commonplace
little body ? — for, after all, she is merely the
average healthy, merry, teasing, delightful
mite who tries to take the whole of life at
once into her two diminutive hands. Ah,

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