"I don't know," Warble uncertained. "He has wonderful ambitions and
aspirations. He wants to be a ragpicker--a real one."
"Ambitions are queer things," Aunt Dressie thoughtfuled. "Now, you mightn't
think it, but I want to be a steeple climber."
"You take Porgie off my hands, and he'll help you--"
"Oh, no, child, every lassie has her laddie--and you saw him first."
* * * * *
Warble sighed. Thus was she always thrown at Porgie's head.
Fate, like a sluicing torrent carried her ever on. Beware, beware, the
rapids are below you!
Thus Conscience, Prudence, Wisdom, Policy, Safety First--all the deadly
virtues called her.
Did she heed?
As the sea's self should heed a pebble-cast.
* * * * *
On a June evening, when Petticoat was called to Iva Payne's, Porgie came.
Bowed in by a thin red line of footmen, he found Warble in the moon-parlor.
She wore a picture frock of _point d'esprit_ and tiny pink rosebuds, and
little pink socks and sandals.
"Come out on the Carp Pond," he muttered, picking her up and stuffing her
in his pocket. "Nobody will see us."
He seated her in the stern of a shallop and took the golden oars. Three of
his long sweeping strokes took them a mile up stream and they drifted back.
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