The absurdity of little Dotty's ideas had driven the sleep out of her eyes.
"It would do very well for a name for a very queer boy," said she, stifling a laugh; "but a torrent _generally_ means the Niagara Falls." "Does it ?" said Dotty; "who told you so?
But I guess I shall call him by it just the same though--if his father is willing." Dotty looked very much interested.
"What will you call the rest of your boys ?" asked Prudy, glad to talk of anything which kept her little sister pleasant.
"I shan't have but two boys, and I shall name the other one for his father," replied Dotty, thoughtfully; "I shall have eight girls, for I like girls very much; and I shall dress them in silk and velvet, with gold rings on their fingers, a great deal handsomer than Jennie Vance's; but they won't be proud a bit.

They never will have to be punished; for when they do wrong I shall look through my spectacles and say, 'Why, my eight daughters, I am very much surprised!' And then they will obey me in a minute." "Yes," returned Prudy; "but don't you think now we'd better go to sleep ?" "No, indeed," said Dotty, drawing herself up in a little heap and holding her throbbing foot in her hand; "if you don't make poetry I'm going to make it myself.

Hark!-- 'Once there was a little boy going down hill; He leaped, he foamed, he struggled; and all was o'er.' "Do you call that poetry ?" said Prudy, laughing.

"Why, where's the rhyme ?" "The rhyme?
I s'pose I forgot to put it in.

Tell me what a rhyme is, Prudy; _maybe_ I don't know!" "A rhyme," replied her wise sister, "is a jingle like this: 'A boy and a toy,' 'A goose and a moose.'" "O, is it?
how queer! 'A hill and a pill,' that's a rhyme, too." "Now," continued Prudy, "I'll make up some real poetry, and show you how.