Why don’t you open your eyelids up wide
And laugh and dance and frolick outside?
And why don’t—’”
“There can’t be any more,” said Pauline inexorably; “I’m at the bottom of the card.”
“Oh,” said the little poetess piteously, “you must put in the end lines,—can’t you turn over?”
“Well, go on,” said Pauline—“but it’s very silly. As if a house could frolic outside of itself! Mother will laugh like anything.”
But Lynn’s face was trustfully serene. Mother never laughed.
“Go on,” she said,—“the next line is, ‘Out on the grass.’”
“I won’t write stories,” said Pauline [p26] decisively. “There’s not a bit of grass in that garden, and you know there isn’t.”
Lynn looked distressed.