* *

It was Veronica's birthday. We were outside the bird-shop. The thrushes in
cages hung around the door.

Veronica lifted grave blue eyes to me trustingly. "You promised me a frush,
darlin'," she said.

Veronica is small for her name and has a disarming habit of introducing
terms of endearment into her conversation.

"You didn't quite understand me," I said gently. "I said I'd think about
it."

"Yes, but that means promising, doesn't it? Finking about it _means_
promising. I _fought_ you meant promising. I fought all night you meant
promising. Darlin'." The last word was a sentence all by itself.

Kathleen raised her eyebrows when we came out with the bird in the cage.

"This isn't quite the moment," I said with dignity; "it's best to let her
get it first and realise afterwards."

"Let's all go to Crown Hill now," said Veronica in a voice that admitted of
no denial.

* * * * *

We were on Crown Hill. Veronica had hugged the cage to her small bosom all
the way, making little reassuring noises to its occupant.

"Now," said Kathleen, "hadn't you better begin? Isn't this the psycho--you
know what moment?"

I took a deep breath and began.

"Veronica," I said, "listen to me for a moment. If you were a little
bird--"

But she wasn't listening to me. She had held up the little wooden cage,
opened the clasp of the door and, with a rapt smile on her small shining
face, was watching the "frush" as he soared into the air with a sudden
burst of song.

We none of us spoke till he had vanished from sight. Then Veronica broke
the silence.

"It's all my very own plan," she said proudly. "I planned it all by myself.
An' all my birfdays I'm going to have one of that nasty man's frushes for a
present, and we'll all free come up here and let it out--always an' always
an' for ever an' ever--right up till I'm a hundred."

"Why stop at a hundred?" I murmured, recovering myself with an effort.

But I could not escape Kathleen's eye.

"I hope you feel small," it said.

I did.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _The Colonel._ "_ANYONE_ MAY MISS THE TIDE OR GET STUCK UPON
A MUD-BANK; BUT TO LOSE THE MATCHES AND FORGET THE WHISKY IS TO PROVE
YOURSELF UNWORTHY OF THE NAME OF 'YACHTSMAN'!"]

* * * * *

RHYMES OF THE UNDERGROUND.

I.

I never heard of Ruislip, I never saw its name,
Till Undergro