Grete Wauzer: “The Caterpillar.”
The caterpillar, free from care,
Crawls on the tree just over there.
“Descriptive poetry. A daring idea—the caterpillar crawling on the tree free from care.”
Wig: Quiet.
Ah, the pleasure of a wig is short-lived! And how soon was this one—but I will not anticipate. Soon, all too soon, the reader will know the worst.
Walter Pieterse: “A Robber Song.”
“Aha, what’s this? And ‘goodness’? But where has he written on goodness?”
The teacher could scarcely believe his eyes. He turned the sheet of paper over and examined the back side, hoping to discover there some lines on goodness.
Then he saw that on Walter’s sheet there was not a trace of “goodness.”
Oh, wretched wig!
Yes, wretched wig! For after it had suffered as never wig had suffered before, after it had been pulled at and tugged at and martyred in a manner beyond even the imagination of the Wilde family, Master Pennewip snatched it from his head, twisted it convulsively in his hands, stammered a short “Heaven-human-Christian-soul-good-gracious-my-life—how is it possible!” slapped it on his head again, covered it with his venerable cap and burst out the door like one possessed.
He was on his way to Walter’s home, where we shall soon see him arrive. As a conscientious historian, however, it will be my duty first to give an account of the happenings there.