"But what's the use?" queried Molly. "When you're all nicely dead and buried, it can't do you any good." "But just think how proud my children and grandchildren will be!" exclaimed Polly enthusiastically. "Maybe you won't have any," suggested Molly sceptically. "People that write are generally old maids, unless they are men." Polly's face fell. Here was a flaw in her plans. "Well, go on," said Molly. "Aren't you going to read it?" Polly looked at the paper in her hand, cleared her throat nervously, drew a long breath, and cleared her throat again. "What's the matter?" asked Molly unsympathetically. She had never written a poem, and had no idea of the mingled fear and pride that were waging war in Polly's mind. She spoke as the calm critic who waits to sit in judgment. "I'm just going to begin now," said Polly faintly. Then, nerving herself to the task, she read aloud,-- "The children went chestnutting once, Out in the woods to stay all day, There's Maude and Sue and James and Kate, All there, for there's no school to-day." Polly stopped to catch breath. "Where'd you get your names?" inquired Molly critically. Polly looked up with a startled air. "Why, out of my head, of course." "Oh, did you?" Molly's tone was not reassuring. "Go on," she added. "Maybe you'll like the next verse better," faltered Polly. "The good, kind mothers pack the lunch Of bread and butter, meat and cake, So off they start at ten o'clock, For it is hot when it is late." This time, Polly found her friend looking at her, with a scornful curl to her lips. "I thought you said it was a poem," she said, with cutting emphasis; "but it sounds just exactly like a bill of fare." This was too much for Polly. Her temper flashed up like a fire among dead twigs. "Molly Hapgood, you're as mean as mean can be, to make fun of me! I've a good mind never to speak to you again as long as I live." As usual, the more Polly became excited, the more Molly grew cool and collected. "Don't be a goose, Polly," she said provokingly. "You're no more able to write a poem than Job is." "What do you mean?" demanded Polly, facing her friend with gleaming eyes and frowning brow. "What do I mean!" echoed Molly mercilessly, "I mean just this: your old poem isn't any poem at all. It doesn't rhyme more than half way, and there's no more poetry about it than there is about one of your freckles. Poetry is all about spring and clouds and butterflies, or else death or--" Molly paused for an idea. Not finding it, she hastily concluded, "Besides, I've heard something just like that before." Polly choked down her rising sobs. "Very well," she said, through her clenched teeth. "This is all I want of you, Molly Hapgood."