206 ERNIE 



paw a piece of cake. " You ain't got this 

 one, ave ee ? " 



" Go away, Ernie, I'm writing." 



" You ain't got this one," he replies, 

 munching the cake, " ave ee, Mis'r Wisson ? " 



I feel more comfortable in the company 

 of children than with " grown-ups " ; and to 

 discourage his talk I put my tongue out, 

 and make a hideous face. 



" Ah'll cut ees tongue off, ah wull," he 

 gravely warns, repeating what his mother 

 has said to him when he has done it to her 

 a frequent happening, I fear; I taught 

 him to do it. 



" Good-bye," I shout. 



Then he departs, and five minutes later 

 I hear a feeble "'onk-onk-onk" in my 

 garden. Ernie is driving his car, which 

 he has made from my wheelbarrow, a 

 cinder sifter, and an egg-shaped pair of 

 pram-wheels. 



"'Onk-'onk," he cries to the sparrows, 

 " git out, 'onk-'onk." Then on seeing me : 



