“Well, I began an historical play,” said Clifford, who was beginning to think a little sister with proper respect for one might be rather a luxury, “but I chucked it. I found it was rather slow. So then I tried to write a poem. But I’m not going to grow up and be one of those rotten poets with long hair, that you read of. Don’t think that.”
“Aren’t you? Oh, that’s right. What are you going to be, Clifford?”
“Oh! I think I shall be an inventor or an explorer, and go out after the North or South Pole, or shoot lions.”
“Oh! How splendid! Won’t you take me? I’d love to come!”
He smiled. “It wouldn’t do for girls.”
“But I sha’n’t be a girl then. I’ll be grown-up. Do let me come!”
“Well! Show me the poem,” she said, for she already had the instinct to see that it pleased him and interested him much more to show her what he was doing at present than to make promises and plans about her future.
They went and sat on the delightful wide-cushioned window-seat. Clifford pulled out of his pocket a crumpled paper, covered with pencil marks. He curled himself up, and Cissy curled herself up beside him and looked over his shoulder.
He began: “I’m afraid this one’s no use—no earthly—— I say, Cissy, take your hair out of my eyes.”