SKY 21 



lute simplicity. It is like the poetry of the 

 Indians. A little relative of mine died on 

 St. Valentine's day, and one of his play- 

 mates said, " He will be God's Valentine, 

 mama." Harold, in the yard, says, "The 

 dandelions are getting old : see their white 

 hair." Like all infants, he amuses us by 

 the quaintness and unexpectedness of his 

 observations. Seeing a hearse returning 

 from a funeral with the driver's official tile 

 inside, he whispered impressively, "That 

 man's going to bury his hat." And talk- 

 ing of a young man who speaks in a meek, 

 high soprano, he informed us that " Mr. 

 E had feathers in his voice." 



Even a town yard is incomplete without 

 children. They are trying, sometimes, and 

 they do not value the pet plants as you do ; 

 but you may console yourself with the 

 thought that if they did not break them, 

 Reginald McGonigle would ; and if he 

 did n't, the beetles, caterpillars, lice, and 

 worms would eat them. The views of 

 youngsters on nature and mankind are the 

 only original ones that we hear. 



To look skyward again : One night, after 



