"I think it is—a little—like that." Jamie's voice was low. His eyes were turned away.
"How? What do you mean? Why, Jamie, just a pencil and paper, so—that isn't like learning to play the piano or violin!"
There was a moment's silence. Then came the answer, still in that low, diffident voice; still with the eyes turned away.
"The instrument that you play on, Pollyanna, will be the great heart of the world; and to me that seems the most wonderful instrument of all—to learn. Under your touch, if you are skilful, it will respond with smiles or tears, as you will."
[Illustration: "'The instrument that you play on, Pollyanna, will be the great heart of the world'">[
Pollyanna drew a tremulous sigh. Her eyes grew wet.
"Oh, Jamie, how beautifully you do put things—always! I never thought of it that way. But it's so, isn't it? How I would love to do it! Maybe I couldn't do—all that. But I've read stories in the magazines, lots of them. Seems as if I could write some like those, anyway. I LOVE to tell stories. I'm always repeating those you tell, and I always laugh and cry, too, just as I do when YOU tell them."
Jamie turned quickly.
"DO they make you laugh and cry, Pollyanna—really?" There was a curious eagerness in his voice.
"Of course they do, and you know it, Jamie. And they used to long ago, too, in the Public Garden. Nobody can tell stories like you, Jamie. YOU ought to be the one writing stories; not I. And, say, Jamie, why don't you? You could do it lovely, I know!"