The Solitary Summer

"How's your husband?" June asked me last time, in the defiant tones she seems to think proper at a ball. "Very well, thank you." "Oh, that is nice." "Mine isn't vely well," remarked April, cheerfully. "Indeed?" "No, he has got some tummy-aches." "Dear me!" "He was coming else, and had such fine twowsers to wear--pink ones with wibbons." After a little more graceful conversation of this kind the ball begins, and at the end of an hour's dancing, supper, consisting of radishes and lemonade, is served on footstools; and when they have cleared it up even to the leaves and stalks of the radishes, they rise with much dignity, express in proper terms their sense of gratitude for the entertainment, curtsey, and depart to bed, where they spend a night of horror, the prey of the awful dreams naturally resulting from so unusual a combination as radishes and babies. That is why my balls are rare festivals--the babies will insist on having radishes for the supper, and I, as a decent parent with a proper sense of my responsibilities, am forced accordingly to restrict my invitations to two, at the most three, in a year.