“Oh, Mr. Driggs, is that you?” said the little girl, getting up quickly and coming nearer. “Did you ever have to write a composition?” “Yes, Carolyn May, I have to write one or two each week.” And he sighed. “Oh yes! So you do!” the little girl agreed. “You have to write sermons. And that must be a terribly tedious thing to do, for they have to be longer than my composition—a great deal longer.” “So it is a composition that is troubling you,” the minister remarked. “Yes, sir. I don’t know what to write—I really don’t. Miss Minnie says for us not to try any flights of fancy. I don’t just know what those are. But she says, write what is in us. Now, _that_ don’t seem like a composition,” added Carolyn May doubtfully. “What doesn’t?” “Why, writing what is in us,” explained the little girl, staring in a puzzled fashion at her slate, on which she had written several lines. “You see, I have written down all the things that I ’member is in me.” “For pity’s sake! let me see it, child,” said the minister, quickly reaching down for the slate. When he brought it to a level with his eyes he was amazed by the following: “In me there is my heart, my liver, my lungs, my verform pendicks, my stummick, two ginger cookies, a piece of pepmint candy, and my dinner.” “For pity’s sake!” Mr. Driggs shut off this explosion by a sudden cough. “I guess it isn’t much of a composition, Mr. Driggs,” Carolyn May said frankly. “But how can you make your inwards be pleasant reading?” The minister was having no little difficulty in restraining his mirth. “Go around to the door, Carolyn May, and ask Mrs. Driggs to let you in. Perhaps I can help you in this composition writing.” “Oh, _will_ you, Mr. Driggs?” cried the little girl. “That is awful kind of you.” The minister must have confided in his wife before she came to the door to let Carolyn May in, for she was laughing heartily. “You funny little thing!” cried Mrs. Driggs, catching her up in her arms. “Mr. Driggs says he is waiting for you—and this sermon day, too! Go into his study.” The clergyman did not seem to mind neglecting his task for the pleasure of helping Carolyn May with hers. Be explained quite clearly just what Miss Minnie meant by “writing what is in you.” “Oh! It’s what you think about a thing yourself—not what other folks think,” cried Carolyn May. “Why, I can do that. I thought it was something like those physerology lessons. Then I can write about anything I want to, can’t I?” “I think so,” replied the minister. “I’m awfully obliged to you, Mr. Driggs,” the little girl said. “I wish I might do something for you in return.” “Help me with my sermon, perhaps?” he asked, smiling. “I would if I could, Mr. Driggs.” Carolyn May was very earnest. “Well, now, Carolyn May, how would you go about writing a sermon, if you had one to write?” “Oh, Mr. Driggs!” exclaimed the little girl, clasping her hands. “I know just how I’d do it.”