Further nonsense verse and prose

This really will not do, you know, sending one more kiss every time by post: the parcel gets so heavy it is quite expensive. When the postman brought in the last letter, he looked quite grave. “Two pounds to pay, sir!” he said. “Extra weight, sir!” (I think he cheats a little, by the way. He often makes me pay two pounds, when I think it should be pence.)

“Oh, if you please, Mr. Postman!” I said, going down gracefully on one knee (I wish you could see me going down on one knee to a postman—it’s a very pretty sight), “do excuse me just this once! It’s only from a little girl!”

“Only from a little girl!” he growled. “What are little girls made of?” “Sugar and spice,” I began to say, “and all that’s ni——,” but he interrupted me. “No! I don’t mean that. I mean, what’s the good of little girls when they send such heavy letters?” “Well, they’re not much good, certainly,” I said, rather sadly.

“Mind you don’t get any more such letters,” he said, “at least, not from that particular little girl. I know her well, and she’s a regular bad one!”

That’s not true, is it? I don’t believe he ever saw you, and you’re not a bad one, are you? However, I promised him we would send each other very few more letters. “Only two thousand four hundred and seventy, or so,” I said. “Oh!” said he, “a little number like that doesn’t signify. What I meant is, you mustn’t send many.”

So you see we must keep count now, and when we get to two thousand four hundred and seventy, we mustn’t write any more, unless the postman gives us leave.

You will be sorry, and surprised, and puzzled, to hear what a queer illness I have had ever since you went. I sent for the doctor, and said, “Give me some medicine, for I’m tired.” He said, “Nonsense and stuff! You don’t want medicine: go to bed!” I said, “No; it isn’t the sort of tiredness that wants bed. I’m tired in the face.” He looked a little grave, and said, “Oh, it’s your nose that’s tired: a person often talks too much when he thinks he nose a great deal.” I said, “No it isn’t the nose. Perhaps it’s the hair.” Then he looked grave and said, “Now I understand: you’ve been playing too many hairs on the piano-forte.” “No, indeed I haven’t!” I said, “and it isn’t exactly the hair: it’s more about the nose and the chin.” Then he looked a good deal graver, and said “Have you been walking much on your chin, lately?” I said, “No.” “Well!” he said, “it puzzles me very much. Do you think that it’s in the lips?”

“Of course!” I said, “that’s exactly what it is!” Then he looked very grave indeed, and said, “I think you must have been giving too many kisses.” “Well,” I said, “I did give one kiss to a baby child, a little friend of mine.” “Think again,” he said, “are you sure it was only one?” I thought again, and said, “Perhaps it was eleven times.” Then the doctor said, “You must not give her any more till your lips are quite rested again.” “But what am I to do?” I said, “because, you see, I owe her a hundred and eighty-two more.” Then he looked so grave that the tears ran down his cheeks, and he said, “You may send them to her in a box.”

Then I remembered a little box that I once bought at Dover, and thought I would some day give it to some little girl or other. So I have packed them all in it very carefully. Tell me if they come safe or if any are lost on the way.