"Cracker mottoes?" suggested Dulcie.

"Exactly. They're just about in the right style."

"Are you all getting into a sentimental vein?" giggled Bertha. "Remember 'Love' rhymes with 'Dove,' and Cupid with--with--"

"Stupid," supplied Dulcie laconically.

"I'm not going to give my rhymes away beforehand," said Phillida. "Is that shuffling business finished, Gowan? Then bags me first draw."

Each girl, having been apportioned the name of her valentine, set to work to compose a suitable ode in her honor. There was much knitting of brows and nibbling of pencils, and demands for a few minutes longer, when Gowan called "Time!" At last, however, the effusions were all finished, folded, shuffled, and laid in a pile. Gowan, as the originator of the game, was unanimously elected president. She drew one at a venture, opened it, and read:

"TO PHILLIDA

"Fair maiden, who in ancient song Was wont to flout her swain, I prithee be not always coy, But turn your face again.

My heart is true, and it will rue, That ever you should doubt me, So sweet, be kind, and change your mind, And don't for ever flout me."

"Who wrote that?" asked Phillida, glancing keenly round the circle.

"Noreen, I believe you're looking conscious! I always suspect people who say they can't write."

"_I!_ No, indeed!" declared Noreen.

"You may make guesses, but n.o.body's to confess or deny authorship till the end," put in Gowan hastily. "Remember, valentines are always supposed to be anonymous. Now I'm going to read another.

"TO LILIAS

"Cupid with his fatal dart Shot me through and made me smart, So I pray, before we part, Kiss me once, and heal my heart!"

"Short and sweet!" commented Edith.

"Very sweet--quite sugary, in fact," agreed Lilias. "It's the sort of motto you get out of a superior cracker with gelatine paper on the outside, and trinkets inside. There ought to be a ring with all that. I believe it's Prissie's, but I'm not sure it isn't by Bertha."

"You mayn't have two guesses!" reminded Gowan, reaching for another paper. "Hallo! this actually to me! I feel quite shy!"

"Go on! You're not usually afflicted with shyness," urged the others.

"TO GOWAN

"Wee modest, crimson-tipped flower, Thou'st met me in an evil hour; For I maun gang far frae thy bower, And leave thee greeting 'mang the stour.

But la.s.sie, thou art no thy lane, This heart is also brak in twain, And like to burst with grief and pain To think I'll see thee ne'er again."

"H'm! He might have signed 'Robbie Burns' at the end of it!" commented Gowan. "Seems to take it for granted I'm doing half of the grieving. No, thanks! I prefer to 'flout them' like Phillida. He may go away with his old broken heart if he likes. That's not my idea of a valentine."

"There were bad valentines as well as good ones, weren't there?"

twinkled Dulcie.

"Certainly; and if I set this down to you, perhaps I'll not be far out.

Who comes next? Oh! Bertha.

"TO BERTHA

"I have a little heart to let, As nice as nice can be; It's vacant just at present, On a yearly tenancy.

It's quite completely furnished With affection's choicest store, Sweet nothings by the bushel, And kisses by the score.

It sadly wants a tenant, This little heart of mine, So I beg that you will take it, And be my Valentine!"

"Edith! Dulcie! Phillida!--Oh! I can't guess!" laughed Bertha. "There's not the least clue! Go on, Gowan! I'll plump for Phillida."

The next on the list was--

"TO NOREEN

"Cupid on his rosy wing Flits to offer you a ring: Take it, dear, and happy make One who'd die for your sweet sake!"

"That's the sugary type again, and suggests a cracker!" decided Noreen.

"You feel there ought to be a big dish of trifle somewhere near."

"I wish there were!" chirped Edith. "You haven't guessed yet!"

"Oh, well, I guess you!"

"I hope it's my turn next," said Prissie.

"No, it happens to be Dulcie," retorted Gowan. "You'll probably be the last of all.

"TO DULCIE

"Oh, lady fair from Cheverley Chase, The day when first I saw your face Put me in such a fearful flutter I could do naught but moan and mutter.

Whether I'm standing on my head, Or if I'm on my heels instead, I scarce can tell, for Cupid's arrows Have made my brain like any sparrow's.

When you come near, my foolish heart Goes pit-a-pat with throb and start, And when I try my love to utter, My fairest speech is but a stutter.

How to propose is all my task, Whether to write or just to ask, And ere I solve the problem knotty I really fear I shall go dotty.

Oh, lady fair, in pity stop And list while I the question pop.

'Tis here on paper; think it over, And let me be your humble lover."

"Quite the longest of them all!" smiled Dulcie complacently.

"But not as poetical as mine!" contended Noreen.

"Oh, go on!" said Edith. "I'm sure I'm next!"

And so she was.

"TO EDITH

"Maiden of the swan-like neck, I am at your call and beck; If you will but wave a finger, In your neighborhood I'll linger, Praise your eyes, and cheeks of roses, Bring you presents of sweet posies, Sweetheart, if you will be mine, Let me be your Valentine!"

"I haven't got a swan neck! It's no longer than other people's, I'm sure!" protested Edith indignantly, looking round the circle for the offender. "Who wrote such stuff?"

"There, don't get excited, child!" soothed Gowan. "'Edith of the Swan Neck' was a historical character. Don't you remember? She ought to have married King Harold, only she didn't, somehow. It's meant as a compliment, no doubt!"

"I believe you wrote it yourself!"