“We’ll leave the things for Maria in the morning,” you explain. “Then it’s perfect. Now where is that poem you were going to show me?”
“Oh, I can’t,” she cries. “It’s dreadful!”
“Don’t be silly, please,” you beg.
“All right. I think you’d better read it yourself. Don’t you hate to have people read your things?” Miserably, she pretends to look at a book while you read.
“But this is lovely!” you cry. “Here, I’ll read it aloud.
At night I close my window
And through the glass I see
Dancing in the moonlight
A silver tree.
I dream about it all night long,