Gradually Ronald's temper improved, and in a short time he was his sunny self again. Peace dwelt in the woods along the river, and where the young officer stretched himself full length under an overhanging willow, the quiet coolness of the unsunned spaces put an end, insensibly, to his irritation. "Say," he said, "did you ever write poetry?" Forsyth smiled, remembering certain callow attempts in his college days. "Yes, I called it that." "Then you're the very man for me," announced George, "for I'm going to write a poem!" "What about?" "Oh--er--anything. Poems don't have to be about anything, do they? It's to go with a present--a birthday present, you know." "To a girl?" Ronald laughed long and loud. "No," he cried; "of course not! It's a little tribute of affection for the Captain! Lord, but you're green!" "How can I help you with it if I don't know the circumstances?" demanded Forsyth. "What is the present?" "The present isn't much--the poem is the main part of it. It's an Indian basket that Mrs. B. P. made for me in return for two fists of beads." Ronald took off his cap, felt around carefully inside of it, and at length produced a slip of paper, much worn. "I've got some of it," he said, "and I thought if I kept it on my head it might stimulate thought, but it hasn't." "Let's hear it." The poet cleared his throat and read proudly: "Lovely lady, take this basket; 'Tis your willing slave who asks it." Robert bit his lips, but managed to turn a serious face toward Ronald. "Is that all you've got?" "That's all, so far. I thought myself into a headache about it, but I couldn't write any more. What shall I put in next?" "I don't want to seem critical," observed Forsyth; "but you've got a false rhyme there." "What's a 'false rhyme'?" "'Basket' and asks it'--'ask it' would be all right." "It doesn't fit. We'll leave that just as it is--nobody but you would notice it, and you're not getting the present." "What do you want to say next?" "Well, I don't know, exactly," replied Ronald, confidentially. "Of course, I want it to be personal in a way, with a delicate reminder of my affection at the end of it." "You've got a 'delicate reminder,' as you call it, in the second line." "Never mind that; go to work." "Lovely lady, take this basket; 'T is your willing slave who asks it," repeated Robert, thoughtfully. "It was made by an Indian maiden--how would that do?" "That's all right, only it was a squaw." "It was made by an Indian squaw, then," continued Robert. "What rhymes with squaw?" "Dunno." "Paw," said Forsyth. "It was made by an Indian squaw With a dark and greasy paw." "Shut up!" said Ronald. "She'd throw it out of the window if she thought it wasn't clean. Call her a maiden if you like." "It was made by an Indian maiden--there isn't any rhyme for 'maiden.'" "Laden," suggested George, after long and painful thought. "That's good, if we can work it in."