“Yes.”
“Have you only one brother?”
“That’s all. He’s older than me. He’s some brother,” he added proudly. “He writes poetry.”
“Poetry? I write it too,” said Peggy; “only mine is just nursery rhymes to amuse Alice, about bees and hens and things.”
“Tom is writing a poem about you.”
“About me?” Peggy was deeply interested. “Can you say any of it?”
Christopher became very red and looked confused. “I can’t remember it,” he said.
“You must remember some of it.”
She persisted until she wrung from him the confession that he could remember one line, and she teased and teased him to repeat it until he said, “All right, if you must hear it, I suppose you must: ‘Peggy, Peggy, long and leggy.’ It gets nicer as it goes on, but that’s all I can remember.”
Peggy looked down at her long legs thoughtfully. The poem was a distinct shock. She had never had one written to her before.