"It was made by an Indian maiden-- With my love it now goes laden. "How's that?" "Fine!" beamed Ronald. "Say, I didn't know you were a poet!" "Neither did I," replied Forsyth, modestly. "Lovely lady, take this basket: 'Tis your willing slave who asks it. It was made by an Indian maiden-- With my love it now goes laden." "That's simply magnificent!" said Ronald. "We ought to write another verse, hadn't we?" "As you say." "If we can do another one as good as that, it'll be a masterpiece. My name ought to come in at the end, hadn't it?" "Nothing rhymes with 'Ronald,' does it?" "I didn't mean that--I meant my front name." "Oh," said Forsyth. He was wondering how the girl in Fort Wayne would like the poem, and longed to ask questions about her, but felt that it would be improper. "'Forge' is the only thing I can think of for a rhyme," said the Ensign, at length; "that wouldn't do, would it?" "My heart is burning like a forge, All because I love you--George." "How's that?" Ronald's delight knew no bounds. "The very thing!" he shouted. "Now, all we have to do is to put two lines above it and it will be done. That's the end of the verse, you know." "Might put her name in," suggested Robert, not without guile. Ronald appeared to consider it carefully. "No," he said, "that wouldn't do. One name is enough to have in it. Something ought to go in about her looks, don't you think so--eyes, or mouth, or skin?" "'Skin,'" repeated Robert, laughing; "girls never have 'skin.' They call it their 'complexion.'" "Thought you didn't know anything about women," George said, looking at him narrowly. "Oh, come now, I can't help knowing that--any fool knows that!" "Except me," put in the Ensign, pointedly. "However, I'll let the insult pass for the sake of the poem. Put in something about her mouth, can't you?" The vision of Beatrice's scarlet, parted lips, with their dangerous curves, came before Robert. "Reddest roses of the South Are not sweeter than your mouth," he suggested. "Man," said Ronald, soberly, "you're a genius. Write it down quick before it gets away. Now I'll read the whole thing: "Lovely lady, take this basket; 'T is your willing slave who asks it. It was made by an Indian maiden-- With my love it now goes laden. "Reddest roses of the South Are not sweeter than your mouth; My heart is burning like a forge, All because I love you--George. "Sounds like Shakespeare, doesn't it?" "I wouldn't say that," answered Forsyth, with proper modesty. "Got any good paper to write it on?" "Only a little, but you're welcome to it." "All right, let's go back and get it. Say, do you think she'll be pleased?" "She can't help being pleased," Robert assured him. "I'm ever so much obliged," said Ronald diffidently. "I never could have done it so well alone."