"Don't forget to say 'Rabbits' to-morrow," said Angela. Angela is aged nine
and my younger sister; I am thirteen and my name is Anne.

We both looked inquiringly at Father, and, as he didn't seem to remember,
Angela in pained surprise began to explain. "If you say 'Rabbits' before
you say anything else on the first day of a month you get a present during
the month, but you mustn't say anything else first, or you won't."

It all came out in one breath and, though it looks clear enough now, Father
was very stupid.

"I dislike rabbits," he said, "and I am very busy; your Mother will
probably be glad of them for the servants."

The rebuke in Angela's eyes was severe. "We haven't got any rabbits," she
said; "we are only going to say 'Rabbits' to-morrow morning when we wake up
and we thought you might like to do the same."

"Oh, I should," said Father; "thank you very much, I won't forget." And he
wrote "Rabbits" down on his blotting-paper. "Now go and tell your Mother;
she would like to say 'Rabbits' too, I know."

That seemed to terminate the interview, so we left him; but altogether it
was not very satisfactory. You see, when we had "Bon-jour-Philippines,"
Father used to provide the presents; at least that was some time ago; we
haven't had any "Bon-jour-Philippines" lately. The last time we did, Jack,
that is my brother at Oxford, found one and split it with Father, and the
next morning he said, "Bon-jour-Philippine" first and then asked for a
present. Father asked him what he wanted, and he gave Father a letter that