y blood in our veins, I should be compelled to decline your
kind invitation, all the stories I know about balloons being stiff
'uns.' It also means, 'Instead of talking about balloons, won't you sing
me a little song?'"

"Nope," said Margery.

"Bother, she's forgotten her music."

"What did you say, uncle dear; what did you say?"

I sighed and began.

"Once upon a time there was a balloon, a dear little toy balloon,
and--and----"

"What's 'at?" asked Margery, making a dab at my chest. "What's 'at,
uncle dear?"

"That," I said, "is a button. More particularly a red waistcoat button.
More particularly still, my top red waistcoat button."

"What's 'at?" she asked, going down one.

"That is a button. Description: second red waistcoat. Parents living:
both. Infectious diseases: scarlet fever slightly once."

"What's 'at?"

"That's a--ah, yes, a button. The third. A good little chap, but not so
chubby as his brothers. He couldn't go down to Margate with them last
year, and so, of course--Well, as I was saying, there was once a
balloon, and----"

"What's a-a-'at?" said Margery, bending forward suddenly and kissing it.

"Look here, you've jolly well got to enclose a stamped addressed
envelope with the next question. As a matter of fact, though you won't
believe me, that again is a button."

"What's 'at?" asked Margery, digging at the fifth button.

"Owing to extreme pressure on space," I began.... "Thank you. That also
is a button. Its responsibility is greater than that of its brethren.
The crash may come at any moment. Luckily it has booked its passage to
the--where was I? Oh yes--well, this balloon----"

"What's 'at?" said Margery, pointing to the last one.

"I must have written notice of that question. I can't tell you offhand."

"What's 'at, uncle dear?"

"Well, I don't know, Margie. It looks something like a collar stud, only
somehow you wouldn't expect to find a collar stud there. Of course it
may have slipped.... Or could it be one of those red beads, do you
think?... N-no--no, it isn't a bead.... And it isn't a raspberry,
because this is the wrong week for raspberries. Of course it might be
a--By Jove, I've got it! It's a button."

I gave the sort of war-whoop with which one announces these discoveries,
and Margery whooped too.

"A button," she cried. "A dear little button!" She thought for a moment.
"What's a button?"

This was ridiculous.

"You don't mean to say," I reproached her, "tha