By 6.30 I had a
list of one hundred and two, and was wavering over the final choice
of a parody on "Some hae meat wha canna eat," and an adaptation of
"Be sooople, Davie, in things immaterial," when my parent came
out to the lawn, flushed and excited, with his last three hairs
triumphantly erect, and brandished a document in my face.
It was an ode, Mr. Punch--an ode five (foolscap) pages long, written
in Greek!
I gave him best at once, and then very gently suggested that his
composition might not in its present unmitigated form be _quite_
suited to your tastes and requirements.
I shall spare you the details of the ensuing controversy, but I want
you to know that I have spared you much else, and in so doing have
forfeited not only my father's affection but a projected advance on
my next quarter-but-three's dress allowance.
I hope you need no further proof of my devotion.
Yours, etc.,
A DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE.
P.S.--I was forgetting to say that you will find the bit about the
ministers near the bottom of the third column of the tenth page of
Thursday's _Scotsman_. Perhaps you can think of a funny treatment
yourself.
* * * * *
SONGS OF SIMLA.
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