‘I know enough, Major; thank you very much. I must learn the rest from John himself. Here are some friends coming—I do not wish them to see me in this anxious state. We can have a chat in the afternoon.’ With a bow she walked quickly away.
He would have followed, but was arrested by a musical voice calling: ‘Major Dawkins, I wish particularly to speak to you.’
He turned, and beheld Nellie Carroll advancing hurriedly towards him. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright with indignation, and her sharp firm step betokened that she was in a temper. Behind her was Stanley Maynard, looking troubled, and evidently trying to persuade her to refrain from some rash action.
CHILDREN’S PLAY.
‘O papa, when will you die?’ asked one of the youngest of my children. A strange question, thought I.
‘Why do you ask, my dear?’
‘Oh, because it will be such fun burying you.’
This little experience of the author of Olla Podrida originated in the death of a pet canary which caused the young people great tribulation. ‘To amuse them,’ he says, ‘we made them a paper coffin, put the defunct therein, and sewed on the lid, dug a grave in the garden, and dressing them out in any remnants of black we could find for weepers, made a procession to the grave where it was buried.’ This little divertissement quite took their fancy, and led them to wish for a repetition on a larger scale.
The memory of a back-garden little cemetery of pet birds and kittens, over whose graves the writer had erected head-slates with appropriate epitaphs, occurs to him after hearing of the late obsequies of a pet rabbit at Southport. Little Amy’s bunnie went the way of all rabbits, and her playmates, sympathising with her affliction, determined to give it an appropriate funeral. They arranged a catafalque out of a soap-box, and with great solemnity dragged it in procession to the grave. The children, feeling that a service of some kind ought to be performed, but instinctively recognising the unfitness of the ordinary religious ritual, joined hands around the bier, and sang with dignified pathos the well-known old song, Oh, bring back my Bunnie to me. They did it so seriously, and with such child-like good faith, that even the grown-up listeners behind the blinds forgot the bathos of the situation, and involuntarily sympathised with the young mourners in their grief. A ‘stepping-stone,’ as one of the pall-bearers afterwards described it, was placed over the grave, and the ceremony was over; but even the gorgeousness of the funeral pageant and the impressive burial service could not wholly console the owner for the loss of her rabbit.
A little girl who witnessed the capture of a rat in a trap, exclaimed, with the relentless thoughtlessness of childhood: ‘Me wants you to dead him, so me can see him all buried in the seminary’—this playing at funerals being evidently a fascinating amusement with many little folks.