Bird of Paradise Part 35

"Not much."

"Oh, Clifford! Why not?"

"Well, it's rather a queer name."

"Do you call him Eustace?"

"I call him Pickering, of course," said Clifford. "At school we don't know each other's Christian names."

"Oh! ... Did you know mine before you came here, Clifford?"

"No. I only knew he had a kiddy sister, but he didn't tell me your name."

She looked rather crushed. Cissy was a lovely child with golden hair, parted on one side, and a dainty white and pink dress like a doll. Cissy was in love with Clifford, but Clifford was in love with her mother.

This simple nursery tragedy may sound strange, but as a matter of fact it is a kind of thing that happens every day. Similar complications are to be found in almost every schoolroom.

"I hope you don't mind my saying that," said Clifford, who began to be sorry for her. "About your being a kid. It doesn't matter a bit--for a girl."

"Oh, Clifford! No, I don't mind." She smiled at him, consoled. "Eustace will soon be home. He's gone to get something."

"Oh, good."

"Do you mind his not being here yet?"

"No, not a bit."

"You told me you had something to show me," said the little girl.

"You've been writing poetry. I _should_ so like to see it."

He blushed and said: "I've brought it. But I don't think it's any good.

I don't think I'll show it to you."

"Oh, please, please, _please_, do!"

"You'll go telling everyone. Girls always do."

"I promise, I _swear_ I won't! Not a soul. Not even mummy. I never tell Eustace's secrets."

"I should think not! Now mind you don't, then. Will you, Cissy?"

"Oh, do go on, dear Clifford; because when Eustace is here we shall have to play games--'Happy Families' or something--and I sha'n't have another chance. I believe he's got some joke on. I hear you've written a play.

Have you?"

"Well, I began an historical play," said Clifford, who was beginning to think a little sister with proper respect for one might be rather a luxury, "but I chucked it. I found it was rather slow. So then I tried to write a poem. But I'm not going to grow up and be one of those rotten poets with long hair, that you read of. Don't think that."

"Aren't you? Oh, that's right. What are you going to be, Clifford?"

"Oh! I think I shall be an inventor or an explorer, and go out after the North or South Pole, or shoot lions."

"Oh! How splendid! Won't you take me? I'd _love_ to come!"

He smiled. "It wouldn't do for girls."

"But I sha'n't be a girl then. I'll be grown-up. _Do_ let me come!"

"We'll see. Don't bother."

"Well! Show me the poem," she said, for she already had the instinct to see that it pleased him and interested him much more to show her what he was doing at present than to make promises and plans about her future.

They went and sat on the delightful wide-cus.h.i.+oned window-seat. Clifford pulled out of his pocket a crumpled paper, covered with pencil marks. He curled himself up, and Cissy curled herself up beside him and looked over his shoulder.

He began: "I'm afraid this one's no use--no earthly---- I say, Cissy, take your hair out of my eyes."

She shook it back and sat a little farther off, with her eyes and mouth open as he read in a rather gruff voice:

"Sonnet."

"What's a sonnet, Clifford?"

He was rather baffled. "This is."

He went on:

"'_The day when first I saw Her standing by the door, I was taken by surprise By her pretty blue eyes, And then I thought her hair So very fair That I felt inclined to sing About Mrs. Pickering._'"

"Lovely! How beautiful!" exclaimed Cissy, like a true woman. "But Mrs.

Pickering! Fancy! Does it mean mummy?"

"Why, yes. As a matter of fact it certainly _does_."

"Oh, Clifford! _How_ clever! How splendid! But mustn't she know it?"

"Oh no. I'd rather not. At any rate, not now."

"I wish it was to me!" exclaimed the child. "Then you needn't be so shy about it. Why don't you change it to me? Look here--like this. Say:

"'_I felt inclined to sing About Cissy Pickering._'

Cissy instead of _Mrs._!"

"Oh no, my dear. That wouldn't do at all. It isn't done. You can't alter a sonnet to another person. If it came to that I'd sooner write one to you as well, some time or another, when you're older."

"Oh, _do_, _dear_ Cliff! I _should_ love it."

"All right. Perhaps I will some day. But, you see, just now I want to do the one about _her_."

"It's very nice and polite of you," she said in a doubting voice. "But you said you'd done some more."