You fasten with a pin.
Whene’er you ope your bureau drawer
And smell this bag I send,
I pray you think of one who signs
Herself, your loving friend.
Herbs are not pollens.
Elizabeth Hollins.
There were tears in Miss Jewett’s eyes as well as laughter on her lips when she read this effusion. “The dear, ridiculous child,” she murmured, “she is so preciously funny.”
It had taken Elizabeth a long time to find anything to rhyme with Hollins and she felt very triumphant when she discovered the word pollen, though plural it has none. Elizabeth, however, never let a little thing of that kind appall her and often took such poetic license as would have amazed a greater poet. She did not show her rhymes to anyone, not even to Betsy, for she had a romantic feeling that the more secret the more tender. She wrote the verses, in her best manner, on the back of a Christmas card showing an angel with a violin. She had commissioned her brother Dick to get this for her. To his credit be it told, that he took much trouble and only after searching long and faithfully did he find what she wanted and sent it to her. To say that Elizabeth was pleased only half expresses it. Her letter of thanks to Dick was characteristic. She said:
Dear Dick,—I am abnormally obliged to you for taking the trouble to send me the enchanting card. It is exactly what I wanted and is memoriably lovely. What it is to have a brother!