“Oh, genius is burning tonight, that’s all,” Betty laughed. “Now let’s think of one for Angela.”
“Something about Latin for her, don’t you think?” Polly said.
The suggestion was enough for Betty. “Fine, dine, pine,” she chanted. “Listen:
“Angela, so fair and wise,
Oh hear us sadly pine,
We’ve tried, but couldn’t find you
A Latin valentine.”
Lois and Polly looked at each other in speechless wonder, and Betty, now thoroughly started, wrote absurd jingles to all the girls. She reached the height of her achievement in Louise Preston.
“Read it again, Bet, it’s the best of all,” Polly said, delighted. And Lois spread a cracker inches thick with jam, and presented it—
“To the Poet,” she said. “I haven’t a laurel wreath so this will have to do.”
“You can’t eat it until you’ve read the poem again,” Polly insisted.
“Oh, all right.” Betty consulted her pad.
“Some people sigh, and wish for the day,
When work is all gone, and there’s only play.
But if the world were black as ink,
We wouldn’t care at all
If Lois were always captain
And our hearts her basket ball.”