tents of her last letter,' said Elizabeth.

Rupert began as follows:

Now must I write in numbers flowing
Extemporaneously a POEM?

'Why, Rupert,' cried Anne, 'you must be reading Kate's. Mine began
with--'

'I declare that I have yours in my hand, Anne,' said Rupert.

'And I did not write one,' said Katherine.

Now must I write in numbers flowing
Extemporaneously a POEM?
One that will fill your eyes with TEARS,
While I relate how our worst fears
Were realized in yonder ditch.
Conveyed there by some water-WITCH,
We found, sad sight for longing EYES!
Fido, much loved, though small in size.
Hard fate, but while our tears bemoan it,
Let us take up the corpse and BONE it,
Then place the mummy in a JAR,
Keep it from sausage-makers far,
Extract his heart to send to FRANCIS;
This gift from HER, his soul entrances,
Within his scarlet gold-laced JACKET
His heart makes a tremendous racket;
Visions of bliss arise, a surrogate,
Ay, and a wedding tour to HARROGATE.

When Rupert came to Fido, Anne uttered one indignant 'Rupert!' but as
he proceeded, she was too much confounded to make the slightest
demonstration, and yet she was nearly suffocated with laughter in the
midst of her vexation, when she thought of the ball at Hull, and 'Frank
Hollis.' Elizabeth and Katherine too were excessively diverted, though
the former repented of having ever proposed such a game for so
incongruous a party. There was a little self-reproach mingled even
with Anne's merriment, for she felt that if she had more carefully
abstained from criticising the Hazlebys, or from looking amused by what
was said of them, Rupert would hardly have attempted this piece of
impertinence. Helen, who considered it as a most improper proceeding,
sat perfectly still and silent, with a countenance full of demure
gravity, which made Elizabeth and Anne fall into fresh convulsions as
they looked at her; Lucy only blushed; and as for Harriet, the last two
lines could scarcely be heard, for her exclamations of, 'O Mr. Merton,
that is too bad! O Mr. Merton, how could you think of such a thing? O
Mr. Merton, I can never forgive you! Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall never
stop laughing. Oh dear! Mr. Merton, what would Frank Hollis say to
you? how ridiculous!'

'Now for Anne's real poem, Rupert,' said Elizabeth, not choosing to
make any remarks, lest Rupert should consider them as