“Yes,” said Mrs. Atherley.  “What’s the latest word from London?”

“Kikuyu.”

“What?”

“I can’t say it again,” I protested.

“If you can’t even say it twice, it’s no good for Evangeline.”

A thoughtful silence fell upon us.

“Have you fixed on a name for her yet?” Miss Atherley asked her mother.

“Evangeline, of course.”

“No, I mean a name for her to call you.  Because if she’s going to call you ‘Auntie’ or ‘Darling,’ or whatever you decide on, you’d better start by teaching her that.”

And then I had a brilliant idea.

“I’ve got the very word,” I said.  “It’s ‘hallo.’  You see, it’s a pleasant form of greeting to any stranger, and it will go perfectly with the next word that she’s taught, whatever it may be.”

“Supposing it’s ‘wardrobe,’” suggested Archie, “or ’sardine’?”

“Why not?  ‘Hallo, Sardine’ is the perfect title for a revue.  Witty, subtle, neat—­probably the great brain of the Revue King has already evolved it, and is planning the opening scene.”

“Yes, ‘hallo’ isn’t at all bad,” said Mr. Atherley.  “Anyway, it’s better than ‘Poor Polly,’ which is simply morbid.  Let’s fix on ‘hallo.’”

“Good,” said Mrs. Atherley.

Evangeline said nothing, being asleep under her blanket.

* * * * *

I was down first next morning, having forgotten to wind up my watch overnight.  Longing for company I took the blanket off Evangeline’s cage and introduced her to the world again.  She stirred sleepily, opened her eyes and blinked at me.

“Hallo, Evangeline,” I said.

She made no reply.

Suddenly a splendid scheme occurred to me.  I would teach Evangeline her word now.  How it would surprise the others when they came down and said “Hallo” to her, to find themselves promptly answered back!

“Evangeline,” I said, “listen.  Hallo, hallo, hallo, hallo.”  I stopped a moment and went on more slowly.  “Hallo—­hallo—­hallo.”

It was dull work.

“Hallo,” I said, “hallo—­hallo—­hallo,” and then very distinctly, “Hal-lo.”

Evangeline looked at me with an utterly bored face.

“Hallo,” I said, “hallo—­hallo.”

She picked up a monkey nut and ate it languidly.

“Hallo,” I went on, “hallo, hallo ... hallo, hallo, HALLO, HALLO ... hallo, hallo—­”

She dropped her nut and roused herself for a moment.

“Number engaged,” she snapped, and took another nut.

* * * * *

You needn’t believe this.  The others didn’t when I told them.

A.A.M.

* * * * *

From “Notes, Questions and Answers” in T.P.’s Weekly:—­

“Author wanted, and where the whole poem can be found:—­

“Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I’ll not ask for wine.”