nger than her usual Verses for
Children--and, indeed, are better suited for older readers--though the
former was such a favourite with a three-year-old son of one of our
bishops that he used to repeat it by heart.

In November 1881, _Aunt Judy's Magazine_ passed into the hands of a
fresh publisher, and a new series was begun, with a fresh outside
cover which Mr. Caldecott designed for it. Julie was anxious to help
in starting the new series, and she wrote "Daddy Darwin's Dovecot" for
the opening number. All the scenery of this is drawn from the
neighbourhood of Ecclesfield, where she had lately been spending a
good deal of her time, and so refreshed her memory of its local
colouring. The story ranks equal to "Jackanapes" as a work of literary
art, though it is an idyll of peace instead of war, and perhaps,
therefore, appeals rather less deeply to general sympathies; but I
fully agree with a noted artist friend, who, when writing to regret my
sister's death, said, "'Jackanapes' and 'Daddy Darwin' I have never
been able to read without tears, and hope I never may." Daddy had no
actual existence, though his outward man may have been drawn from
types of a race of "old standards" which is fast dying out. The
incident of the theft and recovery of the pigeons is a true one, and
happened to a flock at the old Hall farm near our home, which also
once possessed a luxuriant garden, wherein Phoebe might have found
all the requisites for her Sunday posy. A "tea" for the workhouse
children used to be Madam Liberality's annual birthday feast; and the
spot where the gaffers sat and watched the "new graft" strolling home
across the fields was so faithfully described by Julie from her
favourite Schroggs Wood, that when Mr. Caldecott reproduced it in his
beautiful illustration, some friends who were well acquainted with the
spot, believed that he had been to Ecclesfield to paint it.

[Illustration: ECCLESFIELD HALL]

Julie's health became somewhat better in 1882, and for the Magazine
this year she wrote as a serial tale "Laetus Sorte Mea; or, the Story
of a Short Life." This was not republished as a book until four days
before my sister's death, and it has become so well known from
appearing at this critical time that I need say very little about it.
A curious mistake, however, resulted from its being published then,
which was that most of the reviewers spoke of it as being the last
work that she wrote, and commented on the title as a