and the cat was so little, that the
ribbon looked much more important than the kitten that wore it. Ethel
called the kitten Kafoozalum: Tom talked of the bow with the cat behind
it; to which Ethel retorted: "The ribbon becomes her very much, Tom.
Boys have no taste."

Early in the summer--about the time that the kitten was a weak little
squeaker in a basket of straw with the cat of the house next door--Ethel
was given a plant as a present. There had never before been a begonia in
her mother's greenhouse; and Ethel knew very little about it, except
that any rough treatment would kill it. The begonia grew very fast. It
became a tall plant, with beautiful large reddish-veined leaves, and it
was covered with a cloud of pink blossoms.

One day Ethel ran out of the conservatory in a hurry and left the door
open; and Kafoozalum--the red bow with the kitten behind it--ran into
the conservatory in a hurry, as she had never had the chance before.
Tom, coming home from school, went, watering-pot in hand, to attend to
his geranium-slips; he found the door open, and the kitten nearly on its
head in frantic attempts to roll in the begonia pot.

A few weeks after, all the pink bloom was gone. The begonia, branch and
leaf, died away. There was nothing left but a dry brown stump.

"It is dead!" cried Ethel. "A knock or a rub kills the young shoots.
Mrs. Smith told me so. Kafoozalum rubbed and knocked it enough to kill
it all."

"Tears! tears for the begonia!" laughed Tom. "Why, Ethel, I thought
nothing but the death of Kafoozalum would reduce you to tears."

"Ah! Tom, but you don't know how fond I was of that plant. It was the
only one I ever had. I feel almost as if it was _really alive_ once, and
dead now! I shall make it a grave and bury it."

Tom seemed very much amused at this idea--because the begonia was buried
already in its own pot--and Ethel could not bear his making fun about
it. So she ran away to her mother's room, with tears in her eyes.

"Mother, how do you spell 'begonia'?"

"Why, dear? who are you writing to?"

"My poor begonia is quite dead," sobbed Ethel, with a gulp of grief. "I
want to write its epitaph."

"You mustn't cry about it now, Ethel dear. It could not feel. I shall
get you another next summer."

But the only consolation Ethel could get was the writing of the epitaph.
She worked at this for half an hour, and smeared herself very much with
violet ink.

"Here is laid my pink begonia," was her