NOTES FROM A NURSERY-GARDEN.
(By an Awfully Clever Child.)
DEAR MR. PUNCH,—I am a Poetess. I am told that the Age is old, and that Poetry is over. My age is ten, and my poetry is certainly not over. My nurse (one of those horrid critics) has ventured to suggest that I am not original. I leave you to judge. Yours impatiently, ENFANT TERRIBLE.