hin:

"Oh, mother, I do believe you must be the very sweetest woman in the
world!"

"Thanks very much, Lawrence. But why so affectionate? What do you want?"

"I don't want anything. I only know you must be the very sweetest woman
in the world."

"Really, you are too flattering. Why this sudden outburst of affection?"

"Well, you know, I've been thinking over the old, old saying, 'The
nearer the bone the sweeter the meat.'"

Children, I think, have the art of "leading up" to jokes better than
adults. They hear some strange remark, they naturally analyse it, and it
suggests an application. For instance, this brat possibly objected to
some portion of meat at table. His mother had reminded of the old
saying, "The nearer the bone the sweeter the meat." Thin
mother,--there's the application.

One of my youngsters ran into the drawing-room at five o'clock tea. A
lady visitor thus addressed him:

"Come here, my little man. I suppose when you grow up you will be an
artist, like your father?"

"My father is not an artist."

"Oh, my dear, he _is_ an artist."

"Oh, no, no, no, my father is not an artist--he's only a black and white
man. I am going to be an artist in all colours."

[Illustration: PORTION OF LETTER FROM LAWRENCE, AGE 9.]

My own children have been my models, not only for Lewis Carroll's books,
but for all my drawings of children. I have three boys and one girl.
Dorothy is now a successful artist, and Lawrence is, at the age of
eighteen, a professional draughtsman of mechanical subjects; my youngest
is just out of his teens. Their portraits manifolded will be found in
the page sketch from "Romps" Du Maurier wrote me a most graceful
appreciation of these books, which, considering his delightful pictures
of children in _Punch_, was most gratifying to me.

[Illustration: REDUCTION FROM A DESIGN FOR MY "ROMPS."]

[Illustration: PORTION OF A LETTER FROM GEORGE DU MAURIER.]

An artist for whose work I have the greatest admiration was the late
Randolph Caldecott, and the only occasion on which I had the pleasure of
meeting him was of a semi-theatrical kind. It was at one of the
"Artists' Tableaux" which were given in London some years ago. In those
produced in Piccadilly I took no part, and the entertainment to which I
refer was held at the Mansion House. At the last moment, in order to
complete one of the pictures, a portly Dutchman was required, and a
telegram was despatched to me to enquire whether I w