“I don’t know.  Why?”

“Because there are buttons in one of the poems.  Cray says it is a tribute—­a tribute to this donkey that father has, just given us.  He was inspired to write it when he saw him hanging his head over the yard gate.”

Thereupon the verses, copied in a large childish hand, were produced and read aloud:—­

     A TRIBUTE.

                The jackass brayed;
     And all his passionate dream was in that sound
                Which, to the stables round
     And other tenements, told of packs that weighed
     On his brown haunches; also that, alas! 
     His true heart sighed for Jenny, that fair ass
     Who backward still and forward paced
     With panniers and the curate’s children graced. 
     Then, when she took no heed, but turned aside
                Her head, he shook his ears
     As much as to say “Great are—­as these—­my fears.” 
     And while I wept to think how love that preyed
     On the deep heart not worth a button seemed
                To her for whom he dreamed;
     And while the red sun stained the welkin wide,
     And summer lightnings on the horizon played,
                Again the jackass brayed.

“And here’s the other,” said Gladys.  “Johnnie says, it would be much the easier to do, only he is doubtful about the ‘choker.’”

     THE SCHOOLBOY TO HIS DRESS SUIT.

     Nice is broiled salmon, whitebait’s also nice
       With bread and butter served, no shaving thinner.
     Entrees are good; but what is even ice—­
       Cream ice—­to him that’s made to dress for dinner? 
     Oh my dress boots, my studs, and my white tie
       Termed choker (emblem of this heart’s pure aim),
     Why are good things to eat your meed?  Oh why
       Must swallow-tails be donned for tasting game? 
     The deep heart questions vainly,—­not for ease
       Or joy were such invented;—­but this know,
     I’d rather dine off hunks of bread and cheese
       Than feast in state rigged out in my dress clo’.

     G.C.

Emily, after duly admiring these verses, gave her invitation, and it was accepted with delight.  Nothing, they said, could be more convenient.  Father had told them how Mr. Brandon was having the long wing of the house pulled down, the part where cousin Val’s room used to be; so he had been obliged to turn out his nests, and his magic lantern, and many other things that he had when he was a little boy.

“And he says we shall inherit them.”

“And when father saw him sitting on a heap of bricks among his things, he says it put him in mind of Marius on the ruins of Carthage.”

“So now we can fetch them all away.”

Emily then departed, after stipulating that the two little ones, her favourites, should come also.  “Darlings!” she exclaimed, when she saw their stout little legs so actively running to ask Miss Christie’s leave.  “Will my boy ever look at me with such clear earnest eyes?  Shall I ever see such a lovely flush on his face, or hear such joyous laughter from him?”