This was too much for Polly. Her temper flashed up like a fire among dead twigs.
"Molly Hapgood, you're as mean as mean can be, to make fun of me!
I've a good mind never to speak to you again as long as I live."
As usual, the more Polly became excited, the more Molly grew cool and collected.
"Don't be a goose, Polly," she said provokingly. "You're no more able to write a poem than Job is."
"What do you mean?" demanded Polly, facing her friend with gleaming eyes and frowning brow.
"What do I mean!" echoed Molly mercilessly, "I mean just this: your old poem isn't any poem at all. It doesn't rhyme more than half way, and there's no more poetry about it than there is about one of your freckles. Poetry is all about spring and clouds and butterflies, or else death or—" Molly paused for an idea. Not finding it, she hastily concluded, "Besides, I've heard something just like that before."
Polly choked down her rising sobs.
"Very well," she said, through her clenched teeth. "This is all I want of you, Molly Hapgood."
Deliberately she pulled off her mittens and put them into her pocket; then, with shaking hands and with her face drawn as if in pain, but with her eyes steadily fixed on Molly's face, she slowly tore the paper into long, narrow strips, gathered the strips together and tore them into tiny squares, and defiantly threw them away over the side of the bridge into the swift blue stream below. But even before the first floating square had touched the surface of the water, the reaction had set in, and Polly could have cried for the loss of her first and only poem. For a moment, she gazed after the white bits drifting away from her; then, biting her lip to steady it and struggling to keep back the tears, she turned on her heel, without a word, and walked away towards home, leaving Molly to follow or not, as she chose.
The tears came fast now, as she hurried on, avoiding the main streets as best she could. No one was in sight when she reached the house, so she could run up the stairs unnoticed, and throw herself down across the foot of the bed for a long, hearty cry. She had hoped so much from Molly's sympathy! But, after all, now the opportunity had come, the tears were not so ready as they had been, and she did not feel quite so much as if the world had abused her, as she did when she was standing on the bridge, watching the white dots on the river below. At least, no great harm was done, for she remembered the whole poem and could easily write it out again. As this thought came to her, she sprang up once more, seized a pencil and a bit of paper and rewrote the words which had caused her so much joy and so much pain. She was still sitting with her forehead resting on her clasped hands, reading the verses over and over and dreaming of the future day when fame should come to her, when she heard her mother's voice outside.