CHAPTER X
THE POET DOG
When Ann grew up she was given to Ruth as a birthday present; or to be quite truthful, she gave herself, for she was so fond of Ruth that she followed her about everywhere, and would stay with no one else.
She was a very sedate and serious animal; she might almost have been an old lady dog. You would have thought by the look of her she was wrapped in deep thought and that if only she could have spoken it would have been about very clever things.
She looked so wise and grave.
Ruth would have it she was making up poetry. The fact was Ruth was making up poetry herself, and when we are thinking hard of any subject we are inclined to imagine other people are, too. Just now Ruth was busy making verses and rhymes and thought Ann must be doing the same.
Ruth was rather shy over her poetry; she hadn’t told any one about it, she was too afraid they might laugh at her. And yet she badly wanted to know what they would think of it.
One day she sat Ann up in a chair at a table with pen and ink and paper in front of her. She looked so wise and grave that you could quite well imagine her a poet. And when Ruth called us in to look at her, there sure enough were some verses written.