the posts to stand up, but the gardener helped us.

Then the girls made wreaths of white flowers, roses and Canterbury
bells, and lilies and pinks, and sweet-peas and daisies, and put
them over the posts. And I think if Bill Simpkins had known how
sorry we were, he would have been glad. Oswald only hopes if he
falls on the wild battlefield, which is his highest ambition, that
somebody will be as sorry about him as he was about Bill, that's
all!

When all was done, and what flowers there were over from the
wreaths scattered under the tombstone between the posts, we wrote
a letter to Mrs Simpkins, and said--


DEAR MRS SIMPKINS--

We are very, very sorry about the turnips and things, and we beg
your pardon humbly. We have put up a tombstone to your brave son.


And we signed our names. Alice took the letter.

The soldier's mother read it, and said something about our oughting
to know better than to make fun of people's troubles with our
tombstones and tomfoolery.

Alice told me she could not help crying.

She said--