So the precious MS. was sent away, and Eileen waited with what patience she could for a reply.
Then all the others became keener than ever on writing. Doris tried to compose, but she couldn’t make the lines “fit,” and would get in a rage and tear up the paper, and she nearly drove them all crazy asking how to spell words and getting them to help her.
“Oh, do leave it off—you’ll never be a poet! You don’t even know what words go with each other,” said Willie one day when she was begging his help.
“Oh, come on—help me! It’s all about pwetty bluebells and daisies and my dolly——”
“Hang the bluebells and daisies and your old doll!” answered Willie.
“You’re real ugly; you’re stopping at my place, and you won’t help me,” said Doris, in a temper.
“All right, then; go on.”
“I love my little Dolly.”
“I do, I do, I do,” chimed in Willie.
“No, that won’t do,” called out Doris. “I love my little dolly, I do; I love her so; and she is nice and pwetty——”