All through the summer hours,
And the birds they sing and the butterflies wing
Among the fruits and flowers.
“Butterflies wing? What’s that?” asked Willie.
“Oh! that means they fly; a poet can say anything, and it’s all right.” Then she went on with about twenty more verses.
“Beautiful!” cried Doris, clapping in ecstasy.
“Very nice, but too long, I think,” said Mollie.
“Oh, I don’t think so!” said Eileen. “I’m going to send it to one of the Sydney papers. It’s as nice a bit of poetry as ever I read in my life.”
“Are you goin’ to give it to a paper?” asked Doris.
“Give it? No; they’ll have to pay me for it, and pretty well, too, or I won’t part with it.”