sn't yellow, and it isn't half," said Gerald. "But never mind, as
the Mater says. Margaret, you come next."

Margaret looked up, her face full of tranquil happiness.

"I was thinking," she said, "of some lines from 'Evangeline,' that I
have always loved. I say them over to myself every night in this
wonderful moon-time:

"'Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest,
Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river
Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of
the moonlight,
Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit.'"

"Peggy, what have you for us?" asked Mrs. Merryweather.

"Oh!" cried poor Peggy, "you know I never can remember poetry, Mrs.
Merryweather. I shall have to take to 'Mother Goose.' I know I am
terribly prosy--well, prosaic, then, Margaret; what's the difference?
But I can't think of anything except:

"'The Man in the Moon
Came down too soon,'--

and that doesn't go with all these lovely things you have all been
saying."

"It gives me mine, though!" said Phil. And he sang, merrily:

"'The Man in the Moon was looking down,
With winking and with blinking frown,
And stars beamed out bright
To look on the night;
The Man in the Moon was looking!'"

"Phil!" cried Gertrude. "How can you? Comic opera is an insult to a moon
like this."

"Oh, indeed!" said her brother. "Sorry I spoke. Next time I'll sing it
to some other moon,--one of Jupiter's; or the brick one in Doctor Hale's
story. Go on, Toots, since you are so superior. It's your turn."

"'Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear,
That tips with silver all the fruit-tree tops,'"

said Gertrude. "I can't remember the next line."

"What I miss in this game," said Gerald, in a critical tone, "is
accuracy. There isn't a fruit-tree on the Point."

"And the moon, of course, limits herself strictly to the point!" said
Gertrude, laughing.

"It's more than you do!" retorted her brother. "But a truce to badinage!
I go back to prose and 'Happy Thoughts.' 'I say "O moon!" rapturously,
but nothing comes of it.'"

"But something shall come of it this time, Jerry," said his mother.
"Perhaps we have had enough quotations now. Give us the 'Gipsy Song.'"

Nothing loth, Gerald sang the wild, beautiful song, his sisters humming
the accompaniment. Then one song and another was called for, a