lf.

Suddenly an idea occurs to him. He lets go of Jenny's hand and trots up
to an old gentleman with white whiskers.

"Going to see a crab," he announces.

"Going to see a crab, are you, my little man?" says the old gentleman
kindly.

"Going to see a crab," says Richard Henry, determined to keep up his end
of the conversation.

"Well, I never! So you're going to see a crab!" says the old gentleman,
doing his best with it.

Richard Henry nods two or three times. "Going to see a crab," he says
firmly.

Luckily Jenny comes up and rescues him, otherwise they would still be at
it. "Come along, darling, and see the crab," she says, picking up his
hand; and Richard Henry looks triumphantly at the old gentleman. There
you are. Perhaps he will believe a fellow another time.

Jenny has evidently made an arrangement with a particular crab for this
afternoon. It is to be hoped that the appointment will be kept, for she
has hurried Richard Henry past all sorts of wonderful things which he
wanted to stop with for a little. But the thought of this lovely crab,
which Jenny thinks so much of, forbids protest. Quite right not to keep
it waiting. What will it be like? Will it be bigger than the sea?

We have reached the rendezvous. We see now that we need not have been in
such a hurry.

"There!" says Jenny excitedly. "Isn't he a darling little crab? He's
asleep." (That's why we need not have hurried.)

Richard Henry says nothing. He can't think of the words for what he is
feeling. What he wants to say is that Jenny has let him down again. They
passed a lot of these funny little things on their way here, but Jenny
wouldn't stop because she was going to show him a Crab, a great, big,
enormous darling little Crab--which might have been anything--and now
it's only just this. No wonder the old gentleman didn't believe him.

Swindled--that's the word he wants. However, he can't think of it for the
moment, so he tries something else.

"Darling little crab," he says.

They leave the dead crab there and hurry back.

"What shall I show you _now_?" says Jenny.

GOLDEN MEMORIES

When Memory with its scorn of ages,
Its predilection for the past,
Turns back about a billion pages
And lands us by the Cam at last;
Is it the thought of "Granta" (once our daughter),
The Freshers' Match, the Second in our Mays
That makes our mouth, our very soul to water?
Ah no! Ah no! It is the Salmon Mayonnaise!

The work we did wa