much to love them. She says they're nice--when you
know them. I know she's right, of course. But it seems queer. And
she says I _ought_ to love them. So I want to do it, if you don't
mind.... Maybe, if you would let me be a little wicked for a little
while, I could do it. Don't you think, Jesus, dear, that it is a good
idea? A little wicked--for just a little while. I wouldn't care very
much, if you didn't mind. But if it hurts you very much, I don't want
to, if you please.... But I would like to be a little wicked. If I
do, please don't forget me. I would not like to be wicked long. Just
a little while. Then I would be good again--and love the wicked, as my
mother wants me to do. Good-bye. I mean--Amen!"

The child knew nothing about sin.

[Illustration: Tailpiece to _A Child's Prayer_]

[Illustration: Headpiece to _Mr. Poddle's Finale_]

_MR. PODDLE'S FINALE_

Of a yellow, balmy morning, with a languid breeze stirring the curtains
in the open windows of the street, a hansom cab, drawn by a lean gray
beast, appeared near the curate's door. What with his wild career, the
nature of his errand, the extraordinary character of his fare, the
driver was all elbows and eyes--a perspiring, gesticulating figure,
swaying widely on the high perch.

Within was a lady so monstrously stout that she completely filled the
vehicle. Rolls of fat were tucked into every nook, jammed into every
corner, calked into every crevice; and, at last, demanding place, they
scandalously overflowed the apron. So tight was the fit--so crushed
and confined the lady's immensity--that, being quite unable to
articulate or stir, but desiring most heartily to do both, she could do
little but wheeze, and faintly wave a gigantic hand.

Proceeding thus--while the passenger gasped, and the driver
gesticulated, and the hansom creaked and tottered, and the outraged
horse bent to the fearful labour--the equipage presently arrived at the
curate's door, and was there drawn up with a jerk.

The Fat Lady was released, assisted to alight, helped across the
pavement; and having waddled up three steps of the flight, and being
unable without a respite to lift her massive foot for the fourth time,
she loudly demanded of the impassive door the instant appearance of
Dickie Slade: whereupon, the door flew open, and the boy bounded out.

"Madame Lacara!" he cried.

"Quick, child!" the Fat Lady wheezed. "Git your hat. Your mother