"Beneath there lies a little thrush,
Who should have sung on many a bush."
"Capital!" said Miss Kerr, laughing merrily at this brilliant production. "Why, you are a regular poet!"
"It is very good indeed, Frank," said Mrs. Dashwood with a bright smile. "Now, Mervyn, I hope you know what an epitaph is?"
"Yes, I think so," said Mervyn slowly; "but no one says bush like thrush. It doesn't sound at all right."
"Hallo! young Indian, are you going to find fault with my pronunciation? Isn't it splendid, Miss Bun, bun?"
"I'm not bun, bun, and I think Mervyn is quite right," answered the little girl with a toss of her head. "It sounds very funny, and all that, but it isn't the proper way to say the word, I know."
"Of course not, little Miss Wisehead, but we are allowed to say all kinds of things in poetry," said Frank grandly; "and I can tell you it's jolly convenient when a fellow wants a rhyme. But now that we have decided this knotty point, let us go and look for a nice place where we can bury the little fellow;" and, having placed the thrush in the box, he went off to look for a suitable burying-place.
"Put him in my little garden," cried Bunny eagerly. "There are lovely flowers there, and we can make him such a nice grave."
"Where is your garden, monkey?" said Frank. "I did not know you had such a thing."
"Yes, I have; at least I call it mine," answered Bunny, skipping gaily along. "It's a dear little flower-bed down there by the sun-dial, and it will be such a pretty place for the poor dead bird. Do bury him there, Frank."