Marie Jean unwrapped her package with an expectant expression. A large beet, cut in half, and carefully stuck together with toothpicks surrounded the following verse:
"There's a secret in my heart, Sweet Marie,
A tale I would impart, love, to thee.
Every lad in Cherry Street
Kneels in ardour at thy feet,
You've a face that can't be beet, Sweet Marie."
"I never heard such wretched puns," declared Margaret. "There's one consolation,—there can't be anything worse than that. What's yours, Mr. Francis?"
Francis bowed gallantly to Miss Billy. "Ladies first," he said.
A small green watering pot was unrolled from a newspaper, and several verses tumbled out.
"Mistress Billy,
Pray don't be chilly!
How does your garden grow?
With beautiful posies
And lilies and roses,
And sunflowers all in a row.
"Mistress Billy
I must rhyme—willy nilly,—
How does your garden grow?
With small smiling faces
All found in their places
And little ones all in a row.
"Mistress Billy,
Don't think me silly
Thus does your garden grow,
With hard work and duty
And sweetness and beauty,
And faith, hope, and love in a row."
Miss Billy's voice shook a little as she finished reading, and there was something suspiciously shiny in her eyes as she glanced at her brother. But Ted was looking serenely the other way.
Francis' package held a fat pocketbook labelled:
"Sing a song of sixpence.
Pocketful of mon.,
Rent day Francis has it all,
Cherry Street has none.
Never mind! His praises loud
Cherry Street doth sing—
Francis may not be a count,
But he is a king."