working a bunch of roses of different colours; Anne admired it very much, but critics were not wanting to this, as to every other performance of Helen's.
'It is all very pretty except that rose,' said Katherine, 'but I am sure that is an unnatural colour.-Is it not, Anne ?'
'I do not think that I ever saw one like it,' said Anne; 'but that is no proof that there is no such flower.'
'What do you think, Lizzie?' said Katherine; 'ought not Helen to alter it?'
Anne was rather alarmed by this appeal; but Elizabeth answered carelessly, without looking up, 'Oh! you know I know nothing about that kind of work.'
'But you can tell what colour a rose is,' persisted Katherine; 'now do not you think Helen will spoil her work with that orange-coloured rose? who ever heard of such a thing?'
Helen was on the point of saying that one of the gable-ends of the house at Dykelands was covered with a single rose of that colour, but she remembered that Dykelands was not a safe subject, and refrained.
'Come, do not have a York and Lancaster war about an orange-coloured rose, Kate,' said Elizabeth, coming up to Helen; 'why, Anne, where are your eyes? did you never see an Austrian briar, just the the colour of Helen's lambs-wools?'
Though this was a mere trifle, Helen was pleased to find that Elizabeth could sometimes be on her side of the question, and worked on in a more cheerful spirit.
'Why, Anne,' said Elizabeth, presently after, 'you are doing that old wreath over again, that you were about last year, when I was at Merton Hall.'
'Yes,' said Anne; 'it is a pattern which I like very much.'
'Do you like working the same thing over again?' said Katherine; 'I always get tired of it.'
'I like it very much,' said Anne; 'going over the same stitches puts me in mind of things that were going on when I was working them before.-Now, Lizzie, the edge of that poppy seems to have written in it all that delightful talk we had together, at home, about growing up, that day when Papa and Mamma dined out, and we had it all to ourselves. And the iris has the whole of Don Quixote folded up in it, because Papa was reading it to us, when I was at work upon it.'
'There certainly seems to be a use and pleasure in never sitting down three minutes without that carpet-work, which I should never have suspected,' said Elizabeth.
'Anne thinks as I do,' said Mrs. Woodbourne; 'I find carpet-work quite a companion to me, but I cannot persuade Lizzie to take any pleasure in it.'
'I have not time for it,' said Elizabeth, 'nor patience if I had time. It is all I can persuade myself to do to keep my clothes from being absolute rags.'
'Yes,' said Katherine; 'you always read with Meg in your lap, when you have no mending to do; you have been six months braiding that frock.'
'Oh! that is company work,' said Elizabeth; 'I began it at Merton Hall for Dora, but I believe Winifred must have it now. But now it is so nearly done, that I shall finish while you are here.'
Elizabeth did not however long continue working, for as soon as tea was over she proposed to play at the game of Conglomeration, as she had talked of doing in the course of the walk. 'I give notice, however,' said she, 'that we are likely to laugh more than will suit the gravity of the elders, therefore I recommend adjourning to the inner drawing-room.-Mamma, may we have candles there?'
Consent was given, and while the candles were being brought, and Elizabeth was looking out some paper, Anne whispered to her brother, 'Rupert, pray say nothing about Fido, or the Mechanics' Institute, or something unpleasant will surely come of it.'
'Oh! Anne,' was the answer, 'you have robbed me of my best couplet-
Weeping like forsaken Dido,
When she found the slaughtered Fido.
Where is the use of playing if there is to be no fun?'
''Where is the use of fun?' said the cockchafer to the boy who was spinning it,' said Anne.
'Impertinence, impertinence, impertinence,' said Rupert, shaking his head at her.
By this time all was ready, and Elizabeth called the brother and sister to take their places at the table in the inner drawing-room. She then wrote a substantive at the upper end of a long strip of paper, and folding it down, handed it on to Lucy, who also wrote a noun, turned it down, and gave the paper to Helen, who, after writing hers and hiding it, passed it on to Rupert. Thus the paper was handed round till it was filled. It was then unrolled, and each player was required to write a copy of verses in which these words were to be introduced as rhymes in the order in which they stood in the list. Rupert was rather put out by his sister's not allowing him to turn the poem in the way he wished, and he thought proper to find fault with half the words in the list.
'HARROGATE,' said he, 'what is to be done with such a word ?'
'You can manage it very well if you choose,' said Elizabeth.
'But who could have thought of such a word?' said he, holding up the list to the candle, and scrutinizing the writing. 'Some one with a watery taste, doubtless.'
'You know those things are never divulged,' said Anne.
'FRANCES, too,' continued Rupert, 'there is another impossible case; I will answer for it, Helen wrote that, a reminiscence of dear Dykelands.'
'No, indeed I did not,' said Helen; 'it is FRANCIS, too, I believe.'
'Oh yes,' said Harriet, 'it is FRANCIS, I wrote it, because-do not you remember, Lucy?-Frank Hollis-'
'Well, never mind,' said Elizabeth, who wished to hear no more of that gentleman; 'you may make it whichever you please. And Rupert, pray do not be so idle; put down the list, no one can see it; write your own verses, and tell me the next word to witch'
'EYES,' said Rupert, 'and then BOUNCE. I do not believe that word is English.'
'BOUNCE, no,' said Katherine; 'it is BONNET, I wrote it myself.'
'Then why do you make your 't' so short?' said Rupert; 'I must give you a writing lesson, Miss Kitty.'
'I must give you a lesson in silence, Mr. Rupert,' said Elizabeth.
'I obey,' said Rupert, with a funny face of submission, and taking up his paper and pencil; but in a minute or two he started up, exclaiming, 'What are they saying about Oxford?' and walked into the next room, intending to take part in the conversation between his father and uncle. Mr. Woodbourne, however, who was no great admirer of Rupert's forwardness, did not shew so much deference to his nephew's opinion as to make him very unwilling to return to the inner drawing-room, when Anne came to tell him that all the poems were finished, and Elizabeth ready to read them aloud.
'So this is all that you have to shew for yourself,' said Elizabeth, holding up a scrap of paper; 'what is all this?'
'A portrait of Miss Merton,' said Rupert; 'do not you see the poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling?'
'Is it?' said Elizabeth; 'I took it for Miss Squeers in the agonies of death, as I see that is the subject of the poem-all that there is of it, at least.
Did ever you see a stupider POEM?
Pray who is the author? I know him, I know him,
He went to school to Mr. Squeers,
Who often made the youth shed TEARS.
Now for the next, which is nearly as short.
I will write a POEM,
Clear and flowing,
It will make you shed TEARS,
And excite your fears.
'Tis about a witch,
Drowned in a ditch,
Your tears come from your EYES.
If you are wise,
Don't make a BOUNCE,
Or you'll tear your flounce,
And upset the sugar JAR,
