“Suppose we play at Jack and Jill to-morrow, just to inoculate our names, you know.”
“Inaugurate, you mean, you silly old Jill.”
“Well, it’s much the same. Won’t it be fun?”
“Yes, and I’ll do it. Let’s fall asleep, and maybe dream about it.”
“Let’s make some metre first.” This was a favourite pastime of ours—and we always did have some fun of some kind before we fell asleep. Our “poetry,” as we called it, certainly was not of much account; but the play was this: whatever two or three words one of us said, the other had to match in metre. To-night it ran as follows—I put our names before our lines:—
Jack. “Our Auntie Prim,”
Jill. “She’s got so slim,”
Jack. “And her eyes are so dim,”
Jill. “That I’ll wager a limb”
Jack. “She can’t see over her spectacle rim.”
“Bravo! Jack,” cried Jill, “that’s famous.”
Then we had a chorus of laughing. But it was checked as completely and suddenly as if that traditional pail of water had come souse on both our heads, for auntie’s voice rang up the stair—
“Reginald and Rupert, I am listening.”
We covered our heads with the bedclothes, and were as mute as mice, till the sunshine streamed in at the window next morning, and Sally knocked with our drop of hot water.