We do not have any of our toys on Sunday, except in winter, when we have Noah's Ark.

In the summer we may go in the garden between the services, and we always walk up and down together and play with the Sunflowers.
The Sunday Sunflower game is calling them after the black-letter saints in the Kalendar, and reading about them in a very old book--a big one with a black leather binding--in the attic, called _Lives of the Saints_.

I read, and then I tell it to Margery as we walk up and down, and say--"This is St.Prisca, this is St.Fabian, this is St.
Agnes, this is St.Agatha, and this is St.Valentine"-- and so on.
What made us first think of having them for Saints on Sunday, was that the yellow does sometimes look so very like a glory round their faces.
We choose by turns which name to give to each, but if there is a very big one with a lot of yellow flaming out, we always called him St.
George of England, because there is a very old figure of St.George slaying the Dragon, in a painted window in our Church; and St.
George's hair is yellow, and standing out all round; and when the sun shines through the window, so that you can't see his nose and his mouth at all clearly, he looks quite wonderfully like a Sunflower.
Then on week-days, the game I like best is pretending that they are women changed into flowers.
They feel so grown up with being so tall, that they are much more like grown-up people turned into flowers than like children.

I pretend my doll is my child when I play with her; but I don't think I could pretend a Sunflower was my child; and sometimes if Margery leaves me alone with rather big Sunflowers, when it is getting dusk, and I look up at them, and they stare at me with their big faces in the twilight, I get so frightened for fear they should have got leave to go home at night, _and be just turning_, that I run indoors as hard as ever I can.
Two or three times I have got up early and gone out to see if any one of them had no dew; but they have always been drenched, every one them.

Dew, thick over their brown faces, and rolling like tears down their yellow glories.