Mrs. S.—Yes, that's a little poem she has learnt. You can't think what a memory she has for that kind of thing. I should like you to hear her recite it. You can't think how prettily she does it.
Mrs. R.—Does she, indeed.
Mrs. S.—Petsy, will you say your poetry to Mrs. Roberts?
P.—No, I shan't.
Mrs. S.—Oh, now do! Mrs. Roberts would like it so much, wouldn't you?
Mrs. R.—Oh, of all things.
Mrs. S.—She stands on a chair and says it. You can't think how pretty it looks. Come now, Petsy, won't you?
(Mrs. S. puts her on a chair, Petsy jumps down and kicks away the chair.)
Mrs. R.—Well, never mind—don't worry her about it now.
Mrs. S.—Oh, but I should so like you to hear her. Come, Petsy, you needn't stand on a chair—stand there with your hands behind you. Now begin: "Pretty Miss Jane——"