dation. And when she told us to bring in a rhyme, or poetry—whichever we had the courage to call it—I wanted to read mine out loud. But she wouldn't let me. She said she had not intended to start a school for humorous poets."
"What did you hand in?" asked Jess, smiling.
"Want to hear it?" cried Bobby, eagerly, digging into her pocket which—like a boy's—was always filled with a conglomeration of articles. "Listen here!" she added, drawing forth a crumpled paper. "This is called 'Such is Life' and really, I was hurt that Miss Gould considered it so lightly," and she began to read at once:
"'William Wright was often wrong
And Thomas Goode was bad;
While Griffith Smiley, odd to state,
Was almost always sad.
Jedediah Rich was very poor,
While Ozias Poor was rich,
And Eliphalet Q. Carpenter
Earned his living digging ditch.
Tom White was black Jim Black was white,
And Jose Manuel Green was brown;
While Ching Ling Blu was yellow,
As was known all over town!'
I'd have made more of it," added Bobby, "only Miss Gould didn't seem to care for that kind of poetry. And I suppose if I tried my hand at a play that I would be unable to hit the popular taste," and she sighed.
