On Monday afternoon the children were rehearsing their songs at
the meeting-house. As Rebecca came out on the broad wooden steps
she watched Mrs. Peter Meserve's buggy out of sight, for in
front, wrapped in a cotton sheet, lay the precious flag. After a
few chattering good-byes and weather prophecies with the other
girls, she started on her homeward walk, dropping in at the
parsonage to read her verses to the minister.
He welcomed her gladly as she removed her white cotton gloves
(hastily slipped on outside the door, for ceremony) and pushed
back the funny hat with the yellow and black porcupine quills--
the hat with which she made her first appearance in Riverboro
society.
"You've heard the beginning, Mr. Baxter; now will you please tell
me if you like the last verse?" she asked, taking out her paper.
"I've only read it to Alice Robinson, and I think perhaps she can
never be a poet, though she's a splendid writer. Last year when
she was twelve she wrote a birthday poem to herself, and she made
'natal' rhyme with 'Milton,' which, of course, it wouldn't. I
remember every verse ended:--
'This is my day so natal
And I will follow Milton.'
Another one of hers was written just because she couldn't help it
she said. This was it:--
'Let me to the hills away,
Give me pen and paper;
I'll write until the earth will sway
The story of my Maker.
Pages:
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59