Georgie-Porgie, pudding and pie. . . .

It is as irrelevant as life itself.

Georgie-Porgie, pudding and pie,
Kissed the girls and made them cry. . . .

Why pudding? Why pie? Why--if you ask this--why _any_ realism?
These concrete accidents solidify a thin and abstract love-story for
our human comprehension. Or are they, perchance, symbolical?
Georgie-Porgie's promises, like pie-crust, were made to be broken.
He--

Kissed the girls and made them cry.
When the girls came out to play,
Georgie-Porgie ran away.

--Simple solution of the difficulty! And I am already learning to
walk! Poor woman!

_Wednesday, 9th_. I am troubled whenever I reflect on the subject of
heredity. It terrifies me to think that I may grow up to resemble
papa. Mamma, too, is hardly less a savage: she wore diamonds in her
hair when she came up to the nursery, late last night, to look at me.
She believed that I was asleep; but I wasn't, and I never in my life
felt so sorry that I couldn't speak. The appalling barbarism of
those trinkets! I got out of the cradle and rocked myself to sleep.

It is raining this afternoon--the sky weeping like a Corot--and
I am forced to stay indoors and affect an interest in Noah and his
ark! Nurse's father came up and accosted her in the Gardens this
morning. He is one of the Submerged Tenth, and extremely
interesting. On the threat of running off with me and pitching me
neck and crop into the Round Pond, he extracted half a crown from
her. She gave him the coin docilely. I found myself almost hoping
that he would raise his price, that I might discover how much the
poor creature was ready to sacrifice for my sake. She is looking
pale this afternoon; but this may be because I cried half the night
and kept her awake. The fact is, I was cutting a tooth. I have
given up learning to walk; but have some idea of trying somnambulism
instead.

_Thursday, 10th_. To-day I was spanked for the first time. When I
have stopped crying, I mean to analyse my sensations. Sometimes, in
Kensington Gardens, I feel like a boy who is never growing up. . .

II.--THE CAPTAIN FROM BATH.

Extract from the Memoirs of GABRIEL FOOT, Highwayman.

Our plan of attack upon Nanscarne House was a simple one.

The old baronet, Sir Harry Dinnis, took a just pride in his
silver-ware. Some of it dated from Elizabeth: for Sir Harry's
great-great-grandfather, as the unhappy alternative of mel