My dearest Colin,
  How glad I was to have your little letter,
  To know your throat is really, truly better.
  (My words, you see, are falling into verse-gear,
  I hope it will not make you any worse, dear!)
  About your new Bird's Egg Book worth six shillings
  What can I say until myself I see it?
  But now it's bought so dearly, so dearly
  so dearly
  O carefully use it!
  Oh brown-paper-bind it!
  Or you'll certainly lose it,
  Yes, and I'll find it!
  (Oh really!
  Oh really!)
  Then you'll see it never more
  So don't you leave it on the floor!
  (D'you hear me,
  D'you hear me?)
  Now let me tell you something of my doings---
  We all went out to tea last night to Painter's
  And played a game I know you'd like to play at:
  We shot an air-gun at a target on their door
  And even Vera did her level best to score.
  Hence excepting Auntie (for such sports too aged)
  We might have been all Bis(i)ley engaged.
  That afternoon we also saw the 'Pictures'.
  The French boys always charm me, but the mixtures
  Of Blood and Thunder Stories sometimes shock me.
  How does Mary like her Book of Botany?
  I wish I could find some Pheasant's Eggs or Partridges
  To bring you; but I got you lots of empty cartridges.
  'There was a boy so wondrous wise
  He tried to see his nose
  And turning inwards both his eyes
  He now in glasses goes:---'
  must now be changed to
  'There is a boy of Shrewsbury
  On whom all doctors dote,
  He lets them take hot iodine
  And burn out half his throat.'