The Square Baby and I have a new game.

I bought a doll's table and china tea-set in Buffington. We put it under
an apple-tree in the side garden, where the scarlet lightning grows so
tall and the Madonna lilies stand so white against the flaming
background. We built a little fence around it, and every afternoon at
tea-time we sprinkle seeds and crumbs in the dishes, water in the tiny
cups, drop a cherry in each of the fruit-plates, and have a _the
chantant_ for the birdies. We sometimes invite an "invaleed" duckling,
or one of the baby rabbits, or the peacock, in which case the cards
read:--

Thornycroft Farm.
The pleasure of your company is requested
at a
The Chantant
Under the Apple Tree.
Music at five.

It is a charming game, as I say, but I'd far rather play it with the Man
of the North; he is so much younger than the Square Baby, and so much
more responsive, too.

Thornycroft Farm is a sweet place, too, of odours as well as sounds. The
scent of the hay is for ever in the nostrils, the hedges are thick with
wild honeysuckle, so deliciously fragrant, the last of the June roses are
lingering to do their share, and blackberry blossoms and ripening fruit
as well.

I have never known a place in which it is so easy to be good. I have not