XVII
TWO POEMS

T

“THE page was pretty brave,” said Roland. “When I was little I used to be scared of the dark, and my mother taught me a poem about being brave.”

“Oh, say it for us, please!” cried a girl near him.

The boy shook his head in refusal, but Mary Frances gave him a smile and said, encouragingly, “Please, I want to hear it.”

Then Roland rose, made a bow, and recited his poem:

If I Could Crow

Sometimes I waken up at night,
And cannot see a speck of light;
I snuggle down into my bed,
And pull the clothes in overhead.
I look and peer into the dark,
As something seems to whisper, “Hark!”
Then, with an awful sudden jump,
My heart begins to thump and thump.
Oh, my, I think I’ll be so brave,
And all my courage try to save;
Then, as I feel my courage go,
Our yellow rooster starts to crow.
Then I’m ashamed, and feel so small
To think that I’m not brave at all;
To know that in the black, black night,
Our rooster crows—no soul in sight.
He flaps his wings and crows for fair;
His voice sounds like he didn’t care—
Oh, well, what if I’m scared—I know
I’d be brave, too, if I could crow!

Just at this point the cat came bouncing into their midst.

“I have just time enough,” he said, breathlessly; “if you are quite ready, I will begin.”

You should have heard the children shout!

“We are quite ready! Go on, Puss! Begin, please,” they cried.

So the cat made a bow, twirled his whiskers, and began:

The Twins[A]

There were two little kittens, a black and a gray,
And grandmother said, with a frown:
“It never will do to keep them both,
The black one we better drown.
“Don’t cry, my dear,” to tiny Bess,
“One kitten’s enough to keep;
Now run to nurse, for ’tis growing late,
And time you were fast asleep.”
The morrow dawned, and rosy and sweet
Came little Bess from her nap;
The nurse said, “Go into mother’s room,
And look in grandmother’s lap.”
“Come here,” said grandmother, with a smile,
From the rocking-chair where she sat;
“God has sent you two little brothers;
Now what do you think of that?”
Bess looked at the babies a moment,
With their wee heads, yellow and brown,
And then to grandmother soberly said,
“Which one are you going to drown?”

[A] Author unknown.

As soon as he had finished, he waltzed around three times, turned a somersault, and bounded out of the circle as quickly as he had appeared.

When the Story People had stopped laughing the Story King rose and waved his hand and said:

“That will do for to-day; we must not tire our guest.”

“Oh, I am not tired,” said Mary Frances; “I could listen to such stories forever.”

“Dear child, I believe you love stories as much as we do,” said the Queen, smiling at her enthusiasm. “Well, you shall have a delightful surprise to-morrow.”

While the stories were being told, Mary Frances had noticed a little dried-up man, sitting at a table near the Story Lady, and writing rapidly with an immense quill pen. Before him was a pile of white paper and an inkwell. As she told the story he wrote it down, keeping even pace with her words. Mary Frances had never seen any one write so fast and she watched him, fascinated. Almost without an effort his pen flew over the paper, and as the last word of the story left the Story Lady’s lips his pen stopped. Then he folded his papers neatly and laid them on the table.

As Mary Frances was passing out with the Story Lady, this little man, much to her surprise, stepped up and handed her the papers he had been writing.

“These,” said he, “are your copies of the stories you have just heard.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” she replied, hesitating to take them.

“Yes, they are for you,” said the Story Lady. “This is the Ready Writer; he will give you copies of all the stories you hear.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Mary Frances again to the Ready Writer. “How fast you write! You must be the fastest writer in the world!”

The little man bowed and retired, evidently much pleased with her praise of his skill.