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such a long way. It was in 1896, on the last Wednes-
day in May, and I had just returned from my after-
noon ride. My aunt was out in the garden, wearing
her leather gauntlets to cut some lilac, when I clashed
excitedly across the lawn shouting, "Isn't it splendid.
Auntie—the Prince of Wales has won the Derby!"

"Oh, how splendid—has he really?" she exclaimed,
dropping the branch of white lilac which she had just
snipped off the bush with her huge pair of scissors.

"Yes", I continued, bursting with the important
news, "we stopped at the station on our way home,
and the station-master showed Dixon the telegram."

"What was it called?" she queried.

"Persimmon, of course; I should have thought
you'd have known that!"

"Really, Georgie dear, you shouldn't speak so
rudely to your aunt."

I was silent for a moment, feeling crestfallen.
Then I remarked, in a subdued voice: "Earwig was

"Earwig! What an odd name for a horse!" And
then, as I bent down to pick up a spray of lilac, she
added: "Good gracious, darling, how you've grown
out of your ridmg-breeks! I really must get you
another corduroy suit". .. .

But my increasing size had another and far more
important effect. I was growing out of Rob Roy.
My aunt showed her inevitable lack of initiative in the
matter: she said that a small pony was safer for me.
During the summer, however, Dixon persistently drew
her attention to the obvious fact that my legs were
getting nearer and nearer to the ground, although he
had the highest respect for gallant little Rob Roy,
who was beloved by all who knew him. The end of it
was that a "perfect home" was found for him, and he