'Well, my blessed babies,' began the mother, 'there was once a girl called Mary, who had a garden full of roses, and lilies, and buttercups, and daisies, and all the other flowers we have here in the summer; but she was so queer that instead of taking care of them and loving them, she dug them all up and threw them away.'
'What an awful Mawy,' observed June, who never could say r's.
'Then, where all the pretty things had been she put silver bells, and cockle shells, and in the borders along the sides of the paths where other people have hollyhocks, she put rows of pretty maids.'
'Pretty Mädchens?'
'And bells what you rings?'
'And shells how there is at the bain-de-mer?' The babies always spoke of the seaside as the bain-de-mer, and pronounced it as though it had only two syllables, with a very big accent on the first one, so: BAINdmer. 'And then people used to come and look at her over the hedge, and laugh, and ask her how her garden grew, for of course the bells and shells wouldn't grow, and the pretty maids grew so slowly that you couldn't see any difference in one summer at all. And the neighbours called her Mary quite contrary, because she would do things differently to everybody else, but she didn't mind a bit; and when they came and jeered, and called out "Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?" she would answer back quite good-naturedly "With silver bells and cockle shells and pretty maids all of a row." And here's the tune she sang it to, and when I've told you about Miss Muffet we'll go and sing them both.'
'But mummy,' interrupted May, 'was that pretty, in Mary's garden?'
'I think our sort of garden is much prettier,' said the mother.
'And I! And I! And I!' cried the three babies with conviction.
'Except for the pretty maids.'