For some reason we invariably find little girls much more demure than little boys--especially when the little girl is just a plump cluster of rumpled blonde curls and two dimpled red cheeks.

On a bright spring day such a pretty young cherubim was perched on the top of a fence in the vicinity of Kirkland House, quietly cycing the passing stragglers on their way to nine o'clock classes. Suddenly she squealed with childish delight, and then quickly stifled her cry for fear of being heard and seen. Hunching her shoulders and crouching like an adventurous puppy waiting to pounce upon a mouse, she cautiously watched a tall, scrawny human being ambulate down the side-walk toward her. Indeed, the prospective victim-- for victim she intended him to be--was worthy of attack; he had the proverbial look of a worried professor, vacantly intellectual, as he stared glumly at the concrete pacing. And his grey felt hat, the object of our little one's mocking attention, was twice too big and smacked of not very post post-war days. As he approached her ambush, she set herself; then with the rapidity of a lion cub, she rose and struck; but, alas--a split second too late. The hat remained solemnly intact. "Damn it!" she howled, her pretty little eyes gleaming. "I missed him."