“There, that’s two verses,” said Willie; “that’s enough for one day. All good poets never make more than two verses in a day.”
“Don’t dey?” said Doris.
“No, and you ought to leave it alone now for a week, and you’ll be a real good poet when you start again.”
“That’ll be beauful!” she cried again, clapping her hands.
Eva used to write a lot about sunsets and moonbeams, and fleecy clouds and brilliant birds. She used to use the dictionary a great deal those days, finding out big words to make her poems sound grand. She always called them poems, and she would copy them out neatly and paint little sprays of flowers round them, and would only occasionally let them be read. Mollie tried poetry for a time, but soon gave it up and dashed into prose, and wrote nice articles and essays.
“There’s more sense in yours than all the rest put together,” said Willie. “It’s a lot nicer reading than old poetry.”
Meanwhile Eileen waited for a reply about her precious MS.
“Not in yet?” she would say, as she scanned the paper every mail day.
“Oh, you might have to write a lot before you get it in print!” Mollie would say.
“There’s no doubt about mine,” Eileen would answer.