"Yes, dear, the chocolate will be nice for it," she said; "and then we'll cover it up with leaves and put the lid on."
"Oh, and may it have a cris—a crisantepum?" said Archie. " May I pick one?"
"Yes, just one."
Archie laid this above the bird's head, and the lid was put on.
"Oh, and let's have a procession to the tool-shed to get a trowel," said Jeannie.
"Yes!" squealed Archie, now thoroughly immersed in the fascinating ritual. "And I'll carry the coffin and go first, and you and Blessington shall walk behind and sing."
"Well, we must be quick," said Blessington.
"No, not quick," said Jeannie. "It's a funeral. What shall we sing?"
"Oh, anything. 'The Walrus and the Carpenter.' That's sad, because the oysters were dead."
So, to the moving strains, the procession headed across the lawn, and found a trowel in the tool-shed, and excavated a grave underneath the laurestinus. The coffin was once more opened to see that the thrush was quite comfortable, and then deposited in its sepulchre, and the earth filled in above it. But Archie felt that the ceremony was still incomplete.
"Ought we to say a prayer, Jeannie?" he said.
"No, it's only a thrush."
Archie considered a moment.
"I don't care," he said. "I shall all the same."
He took off his sailor cap and knelt down, closing his eyes.
"God bless the poor thrush," he said. "Goodnight, thrush. I can't think of anything more. Amen. Say Amen, Jeannie."
"Amen," said Jeannie.
"And do get up from that damp earth, dear,"
