“To Connie, our musician, a valentine we send,
We hope that when she gets this she will her manners mend.”
“That rimes,” Lois said reluctantly. “But there’s nothing the matter with Con’s manners, so it doesn’t make sense.”
“That’s just it,” Polly agreed hopelessly. “We can’t write sense that rimes, because we’re not poets.”
“Betty can, let’s get her to help. You go, I’m so comfy.”
“All right, lazy one, don’t eat all the jam before I get back,” and Polly left, to return in a few minutes with Betty.
“Original valentines, that’s a bully idea,” she said when the plan had been explained to her. “Let’s start with Connie.”
Polly and Lois agreed. They did not think it necessary to say that they had already started with Connie.
“Four lines are enough, let’s see, what rimes with valentine? Columbine, turpentine—aha! I’ve got it.” Betty scribbled furiously. “How’s this?
“Just to tell you, Connie,
That a drop of turpentine,
Will take the blood stain off your hand,
We send this valentine.”
“Oh, Bet, that’s great. How did you ever think of it?” Polly was filled with admiration.