He started, drew on his shoes, half-buttoned them, slipped into his blouse, with boyish disregard for such matters as bathing, and scampered down the stairs to the dining-room. After a hasty meal of oatmeal and potatoes, he fled to the seclusion of the library. A moment of nervous fumbling with the lock, a rapid turning of pages, and-- "From a son at an educational institution, to his father, engaged in business at Boston, requesting--" But he didn't want to borrow money from Louise. "Honored Parent!" Why, "Honored Louise" would sound too ridiculous for anything. "From a merchant engaged in the hay and grain business in Baltimore, to a wholesale dealer in New York, complaining that--" Such prosaic details as hay and grain shortages were not for him. He wanted a love letter, an epistle that would breathe the fire of adoration in every line. Didn't the old book have any? The title said _Complete_--What was this? "From a young man--" He skipped the rest of the heading--such things didn't have much to do with the real contents anyway. "Beloved--" That sounded better. "When first I--" The door opened suddenly. Mrs. Fletcher gazed down at him in astonishment. "Haven't you gone to school yet? It's five minutes of nine, now. What on earth have you been doing?" The book dropped to the floor. A scant five minutes later, he stumbled breathlessly into the school room, only to find that roll call had been finished and that "B" class was holding its English recitation. Miss Brown frowned and made a mark in the record book on her desk, and went on with the class work. Out came his theme pad and pencil. The fifteen minute study period was his for the composition of that letter and he set to work. What did a fellow usually say to a girl, anyway? He'd never written one before. He twisted in his seat and caught a glimpse of the adored one's graceful curls, but even with this inspiration, ideas refused to come. "B" division closed its composition books and began to recite under Miss Brown's guidance, And she, kissing back, could not know That _my_ kiss was given to her sister, Folded close under deepening snow. For two long weeks they had been memorizing "The First Snow-Fall," but were not as yet, letter-perfect in the verses. The teacher encouraged them. Twenty odd juvenile voices resumed the choppy, monotonous chant. John gripped his pencil with new life. Poetry! That was the only way to express your sentiments! Why hadn't he thought of it before? Once, in third grade, he had composed a masterpiece: Think, think, what do you think? A mouse ran under the kitchen sink. The old maid chased it With dustpan and broom And kicked it and knocked it Right out of the room. The slip of paper had been passed to a chum for appreciation, only to have Miss O'Rourke pounce upon the effort and read it to an uproarious class. His ears burned, even now, at that memory.