like lines on a very dirty piece of paper, Emily—‘Lines Written on a Sundial in our Garden’—ditto—‘Lines to my Favourite Cat’—another romantic tail, I presume—‘Ode to Ilse’—‘Thy neck is of a wondrous pearly sheen’—hardly that, I should say. Ilse’s neck is very sunburned—‘A Deskripshun of Our Parlour,’ ‘The Violets Spell’—I hope the violet spells better than you do, Emily—‘The Disappointed House’—
“‘Lilies lifted up white cups
For the bees to dr—r—i—i—nk.’”
“I didn’t write it that way!” cried tortured Emily.
“‘Lines to a Piece of Brokade in Aunt Laura’s Burow Drawer,’ ‘Farewell on Leaving Home,’ ‘Lines to a Spruce Tree’—‘It keeps off heat and sun and glare, Tis a goodly tree I ween’—are you quite sure that you know what ‘ween’ means, Emily?—‘Poem on Mr. Tom Bennet’s Field’—‘Poem on the Vew from Aunt Elizabeth’s Window’—you are strong on ‘v-e-w-s,’ Emily—‘Epitaff on a Drowned Kitten,’ ‘Meditashuns at the tomb of my great great grandmother’—poor lady—‘To my Northern Birds’—‘Lines composed on the bank of Blair Water gazing at the stars’—h’m—h’m—
“‘Crusted with uncounted gems,
Those stars so distant, cold and true,’
Don’t try to pass those lines off as your own, Emily. You couldn’t have written them.”
“I did—I did!” Emily was white with sense of outrage. “And I’ve written lots far better.”
Miss Brownell suddenly crumpled the ragged little papers up in her hand.
“We have wasted enough time over this trash,” she said. “Go to your seat, Emily.”
She moved towards the stove. For a moment Emily did not realize her purpose. Then, as Miss Brownell
