"But she's your own cousin, and you oughtn't, you know. If it isn't wicked, it MUST be naughty to call her a ninny," said Rose.
"I wish she wasn't my cousin, I ain't fond of her," said the boy, with a frown on his handsome face.
"She did a mean thing this morning, and I'll get even with her," he continued, "and when she wrote one of her everlasting old poems about me, it was more than I could stand. Just read it and I guess you won't blame me."
He thrust a crumpled bit of paper over the hedge.
Rose ran to the hedge, and took the paper. She was curious to know what kind of a poem Lester had inspired.
Who could blame her that she laughed when she read the ridiculous lines?
"Lester's a boy, but he's not brave;
The cat scratched him, and he cried.
He's not the kind of a boy I like
Although I've often tried.
His eyes are brown, but I don't care;
His freckles are yellow, and so is his hair.
He teases, so he has no heart,
And he runs after the old ice-cart."
"Could a fellow stand THAT? said Lester, his cheeks very red.
"It wasn't nice," said Rose, "and Lester, wait a moment," as the boy turned to go.