Part 15 (2/2)
”We must have a solemn funeral,” said young Collins. ”Who will write an epitaph to put at the head of his grave?”
”An epee--what, Frank?” asked Mervyn, with a puzzled look on his little face. ”What do you mean?”
”An epitaph, you little simple Indian; do you not know what that means?”
”No,” said Mervyn gravely, ”I don't think people in India ever have such things.”
”Don't they indeed! Bunny, what is an epitaph?” asked Frank, laughing merrily as he took a pretty bon-bon box from the little girl's hand.
”I don't know, I'm sure,” said Bunny; ”I never heard of such a thing. What is it yourself?”
”Well, you are a clever pair! Why, it's something written on a tombstone,” cried Frank, and, taking a piece of paper out of his pocket, he scribbled a few words, and then proceeded to read them aloud. ”Listen and learn what an epitaph is, my friends:--
”Beneath there lies a little thrush, Who should have sung on many a bush.”
”Capital!” said Miss Kerr, laughing merrily at this brilliant production. ”Why, you are a regular poet!”
”It is very good indeed, Frank,” said Mrs. Dashwood with a bright smile. ”Now, Mervyn, I hope you know what an epitaph is?”
”Yes, I think so,” said Mervyn slowly; ”but no one says bush like thrush. It doesn't sound at all right.”
”Hallo! young Indian, are you going to find fault with my p.r.o.nunciation? Isn't it splendid, Miss Bun, bun?”
”I'm not bun, bun, and I think Mervyn is quite right,” answered the little girl with a toss of her head. ”It sounds very funny, and all that, but it isn't the proper way to say the word, I know.”
”Of course not, little Miss Wisehead, but we are allowed to say all kinds of things in poetry,” said Frank grandly; ”and I can tell you it's jolly convenient when a fellow wants a rhyme. But now that we have decided this knotty point, let us go and look for a nice place where we can bury the little fellow;” and, having placed the thrush in the box, he went off to look for a suitable burying-place.
”Put him in my little garden,” cried Bunny eagerly. ”There are lovely flowers there, and we can make him such a nice grave.”
”Where is your garden, monkey?” said Frank. ”I did not know you had such a thing.”
”Yes, I have; at least I call it mine,” answered Bunny, skipping gaily along. ”It's a dear little flower-bed down there by the sun-dial, and it will be such a pretty place for the poor dead bird.
Do bury him there, Frank.”
”Very well; what pleases you pleases me,” and off they went to Bunny's garden.
Very carefully Frank dug up the earth, and, having placed the bird within the grave, he filled it in neatly, took a lovely geranium from a neighbouring flower-bed, and planted it just over the poor songster's head.
”We must water it,” cried Bunny, ”or it will not grow,” and away she rushed to the tool-house. Here she found the gardener's watering-pot, and, unfortunately for them all, it was more than half-full of water.
”This will make the flowers grow beautifully,” she cried; and before the boys had time to speak or stop her hand, she tilted up the heavy pot and sent the water flying all over their feet and legs.
”Oh! Bunny, Bunny! just see what you have done,” exclaimed Mervyn, beginning to cry as he felt the cold water soaking in through his stockings and shoes. ”Oh, dear! what shall I do?”
”You little mischief!” cried Frank, shaking himself. ”What on earth made you do that?”
”Oh! I wanted the flower to grow,” said Bunny, bursting into tears, ”and I did not mean to wet you and Mervyn at all; and look at my own pinafore and frock. Oh, dear! what will Sophie say?”
”Sophie will say you are a naughty, wicked little creature,” cried the maid, darting out suddenly from behind a tree. ”Come in this minute and get your things changed. Monsieur Mervyn, go to the nursery at once.”
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