She drew nearer, and shook hands, giving each boy a nod, and then bringing back her attention to the young teacher.
“So this isn’t only play?” she said.
“O no; it is work, not play,” Maimie answered, smiling.
“What was the boy saying to you?”
“Some poetry.”
Aunt Briscoe despised poetry, and she gave a little sniff.
“What good will that do him, I should like to know?”
Maimie looked surprised at the question.
“Mother used to say no one was educated who had not a knowledge of the best poets,” she said. “And anything that exercises his memory, and makes him think, is good for him.”
“Makes him think!”