star in turn, and having waited a
moment to allow undue giggling to subside, opened her sheets of exercise
paper and began:

"OLD ENGLAND

"I never can quite see why it is called 'Old' England, because I
don't suppose it is any older than any other part of the world,
really, but perhaps 'Old' is a term of endearment, because I notice
when any girl likes me, she generally calls me 'old sport,' or 'old
thing.' Well, at any rate here I am back in Old England, and it is
a wonderfully nice sort of a country. I specially like the
policemen, who wave their white gloves and stop all the traffic in
the street in a second, and the railway porters who yell out the
names of the stations, and the little boys who cry the newspapers.
There are no beggars in Old England like there are in Sicily, and
no mosquitoes, and no earthquakes. At least not proper ones. I
thought we were all beggars when we tried to raise money for the
'Waifs and Strays'; Bertha buzzes worse than any mosquito when she
wants to borrow my penknife, and I thought there was an earthquake
the last time Laurette danced.

"I like all the old houses and castles and cathedrals in Old
England, and especially the old gardens. What I don't like are my
old lessons. Old England is a jolly, hospitable, comfortable, green
sort of country, and I am quite at home here now, so hurrah! Old
England for ever!"

Carmel, having read her manuscript as rapidly as possible, vacated the
chair in a breathless condition, and pushed Noreen into her place.
Noreen had been struggling with Pegasus, and had produced a spring poem.
It was short, but perhaps a trifle over-sweet.

"TO MY DEARIE-OH!

"Spring is comen back again,
(Daisy buds for my dearie!)
Gone is winter's snow and rain,
(Cherry lips for my dearie!)
Blossom clothes the orchards now,
(Apple cheeks for my dearie!)
Nests of birds on every bough,
(And kisses for my dearie!)

"It's one of those old-fashioned sort of things--I believe you call them
madrigals," she ventured.

Nobody else knew what a madrigal was, so they took Noreen's word for it,
and allowed her to retire in favor of Edith, who had also been trying to
cultivate the muse of poetry. Her effort at verse was entitled:

"MIRANDA'S MUSIC

"Miranda had learnt the piano to play,
And when seated one da