Hilda’s mother had always read poetry to her; she knew a great deal of it by heart, and used to love to go about sort of saying it under her breath, or even with closed lips letting it say itself in her head. Since she’d come to Texas and planned to grow up and be Uncle Hank’s partner and a ranchwoman, she sometimes wondered if she ought to do this. And too, out here the plains, the sky, the movements on these two of the morning and evening which made day and night, also set her to stringing words together. Sometimes these rimed, and then it would give her a thrill that was almost painful. There was nobody to tell about it. Aunt Val, even when she was there, would only have told her to run away and not interrupt when a person was reading, and Burchie was too little. So it had made itself into a secret; and when a thing does that it pretty soon gets to be seeming like something wrong. Now, here was this Frosty MacQueen, a grown man, owner of a ranch, and it seemed he was allowed to make rimes without loss of social standing. She plucked up sudden courage and asked:
“Uncle Hank—did you know I could write poetry?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if you could.” The old man was busy with his team, getting over a bit of a gully. She watched close to see whether he was pleased or displeased with her statement, but could make nothing of him. As he seemed not to be going any further with the subject, she was obliged to take it up again herself, an effort that gave a little too much force to her statement:
“But I won’t—if you’d rather I wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t what?” They were going smoothly now without further attention, as she went on:
“I love it, in the books, too; and maybe—at nights, and times when you’re resting—but you know I intend to learn to ride and—and grow up to be a real ranchwoman and your right hand. Do you think I could do that and write poetry too?”
“Sure, Pettie. Why not? Lots o’ good riders and such write poetry. I’ve knowed boys that sung it to the cattle, riding night herd. You go ahead; if you grow up along of me, you’re bound to grow up a rancher; that’s all there is to be, around here. I couldn’t help you none in the poetry business; but you can read me any of your little pieces that you’ve wrote, any time you want to. I expect they’re fine.”
“Oh, Uncle Hank, I will!” in a flutter of embarrassment and delight. “But I haven’t got any very good ones—yet. If you don’t think it’s foolish—I will write a nice one out for you.”
Pearsall was looking keenly ahead.
“Like as not neither of the boys at home,” he said. “But Frosty’s been pesterin’ me to bring you along some time to see his white cat, Lily. He’s plumb foolish about Lily; says she’s all the family he’s got, that she has more sense than some humans. Lily’ll be at home, anyhow.”