"A big bear darted through the wood, His instinct told him where she stood. Soon the monster came close to Ria, But the child showed no sign of fear. "As the big bear drew very close, She gave a pat to his cold nose, At this touch the bear did cease to growl, And for response a joyful howl. "Then these two friends lay down together, Quite heedless of the raging weather, Upon the hard and frozen ground, The two friends slept, both very sound. "But one of the two never awoke; Long, long after the wind storm broke, She was discovered lying there, Where she had died beside the bear." "Bravo! Winifred, that's fine!" shouted Jack Randall, and then followed a shout of laughter, in which everybody joined, Winifred herself as heartily as any of the others. "I told you it was awful," she said between gasps, "but Lulu said no one could be a member who didn't write a poem, so I had to do my best." "I should die of mortification if I were laughed at like that," whispered Elsie to Carol, who sat next to her. To which her friend replied sympathetically: "Of course you would, but then everybody isn't a genius like you." "The next poem," announced Lulu, when order had been restored, "is by Miss Marjorie Graham of Arizona. Get up, Marjorie." Marjorie's heart was beating rather fast as she rose, but there was a merry twinkle in her eye, and if her voice shook a little when she began to read, it was more from suppressed laughter than from fear. "THE BORING LIFE OF NEW YORK. "Some think it delightful to live in New York, But with them I do not agree; 'Tis nothing but hustle and bustle and talk, All very distasteful to me. "I love all the pleasures the country can give, The beautiful flowers and the birds; The city produces not one of these things, Only traffic and crowds by the herds. "The city is good as a workshop for men, Who in parks idle moments may pass, But the pleasure for children e'en there is quite spoiled, When a sign bids them 'Keep off the Grass.'" A burst of genuine applause followed this production, and Marjorie sat down again quite covered with confusion. "It's splendid; I couldn't have written anything half so good," whispered Betty encouragingly. "I am rather glad I am not to be a member of the Club, for I know I could never have written two lines that rhymed." "The next poem," continued Lulu, in her business-like tone, "is by Miss Gertrude Rossiter," and Gertie, looking very much embarrassed, rose, and began: "THE STORM AT SEA.