“Well, you needn't go if it does!” responded her aunt sharply. “It don't scream to me when I'm rollin' out these doughnuts, and it wouldn't to you if your mind was on your duty.” Rebecca's little brown hands flew in and out among the weeds as she thought rebelliously: “Creation _wouldn't_ scream to Aunt Miranda; it would know she wouldn't come.” Scream on, thou bright and gay creation, scream! 'Tis not Miranda that will hear thy cry! Oh, such funny, nice things come into my head out here by myself, I do wish I could run up and put them down in my thought book before I forget them, but Aunt Miranda wouldn't like me to leave off weeding:-- Rebecca was weeding the hollyhock bed When wonderful thoughts came into her head. Her aunt was occupied with the rolling pin And the thoughts of her mind were common and thin. That wouldn't do because it's mean to Aunt Miranda, and anyway it isn't good. I _must_ crawl under the syringa shade a minute, it's so hot, and anybody has to stop working once in a while, just to get their breath, even if they weren't making poetry. Rebecca was weeding the hollyhock bed When marvelous thoughts came into her head. Miranda was wielding the rolling pin And thoughts at such times seemed to her as a sin. How pretty the hollyhock rosettes look from down here on the sweet, smelly ground! “Let me see what would go with rosetting. _Aiding and abetting, petting, hen-setting, fretting,_--there's nothing very nice, but I can make fretting' do. Cheered by Rowena's petting, The flowers are rosetting, But Aunt Miranda's fretting Doth somewhat cloud the day.” Suddenly the sound of wagon wheels broke the silence and then a voice called out--a voice that could not wait until the feet that belonged to it reached the spot: “Miss Saw-_yer!_ Father's got to drive over to North Riverboro on an errand, and please can Rebecca go, too, as it's Saturday morning and vacation besides?” Rebecca sprang out from under the syringa bush, eyes flashing with delight as only Rebecca's eyes _could_ flash, her face one luminous circle of joyous anticipation. She clapped her grubby hands, and dancing up and down, cried: “May I, Aunt Miranda--can I, Aunt Jane--can I, Aunt Miranda-Jane? I'm more than half through the bed.”