“You tell me, Sonny, for a change,” suggests the lady.

“Velly well,” replies the boy....  “Vere was once a Daddy and a hobberell gweat Thnake always bovvered him and followed him about and wouldn’t let him gone to thleep and made him be ill like he had eaten too much sweets, and the doctor came and gave him lotths of meddisnin.  Then he had to wun away from the Thnake, but it wunned after him, and it wath jutht going to kill him when Mummy bwoughted the Thword and Daddy killed the Thnake all dead.  And I am going to have the Thword when I gwow up, but vere aren’t any more bad Thnakes.  They is all good now and Daddy likes vem and I likes vem.  Amen.”

“I never said Amen, when I told you the story, Sonny,” remarks the lady.

“Well you can, now I have tolded you it,” permits her son.  “It means bus[32]—­all finished.  Mitthis Beaton thaid tho.  And when I am as big as Daddy I’m going to be the Generwal of the Queenth Gweyth and thay ‘Charge!’ and wear the Thword.”

Lucille de Warrenne here smothers conversation in the manner common to worshipping mothers whose prodigies make remarks indicative of marvellous precocity, in fact absolutely unique intelligence.

EPILOGUE.

Is it well, O my Soul, is it well?

    In silent aisles of sombre tone
    Where phantoms roam, thou dwell’st apart
    In drear alone. 
    Where serpents coil and night-birds dart
    Thou liest prone, O Heart, my Heart,
    In dread unknown. 
    O Soul of Night, surpassing fair,
    Guide this poor spirit through the air,
    And thus atone ...

This sad Soul, searching for the light....

O Soul of Night, enstarred bright,
    Shine over all. 
    Enforce thy right to fend for us
    Extend thy power to fight for us
    Raise thou night’s pall. 
    Ensteep our minds in loveliness
    In all sweet hope and godliness
    Give guard o’er all ... 
This brave Soul striving in stern fight....

Thou soul of Night, thou spirit-elf,
    Rise up and bless. 
    Help us to cleanse in holiness
    Show how to dress in saintliness
    Our weary selves,
    Expurge our deeds of earthiness
    Expunge desires of selfliness
    Rise up and bless ... 
This strong Soul dying in such plight....

* * * * *

Night gently spreads her wings and flies
Star-laden, wide across the skies. 
My Soul, new strong,
So late enstained with earthly dust
So long estranged in wander-lust
Gives praise and song,
Strives to create in morning light
The starry wonders of the night
In praise and song ...

This strong Soul praising in new right. 
It is well, O my Soul, it is well....

A. L. WREN.

[Footnote 1:  Store-room.]