"Churry Ripe, Churry Ripe,
Who'll buy my churries--"

or wailed

"Where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?
Where have you been, charming Billy?"

It almost made up for not being allowed to go out of the garden.

If Felice only could have been allowed to go around into the
Tradespersons' Street just once! I wish she could have gone--just
once! On one of the days when the swinging sign, that was gilded and
painted so beautifully, was hung outside to announce

"KING CHARLES AND BLENHEIM SPANIELS
For sale within."

I'm sure she would have loved the line of carriages waiting in the
cobble-stoned alley when the fine ladies came to buy. I think she
would have clapped her hands at the gay boxes of geraniums and the crisp
white curtains in Marthy's shining windows over the stable door.

But she could only stay in the garden with the thin visaged old French
woman who taught her to read and to write and to embroider and to play
upon an old lute and to curtsy and to dance. One thing she learned
that the French woman did not teach her--to whistle! She remembers
answering the sea-gulls who mewed outside in the harbor and the
sparrows who twittered in the ivy and the tiny pair of love-birds who