After awhile, as he did not appear, Molly went up to find him: she was anxious he should know how heartily she valued his real opinion.
“I have got a little poem here—if you can call it a poem—a few lines I wrote last Christmas: would you mind looking at it, and telling me if it is anything?”
“So, my bird of paradise, you sing too?” said Walter.
“Very little. A friend to whom I sent it, took it, without asking me, to one of the magazines for children, but they wouldn’t have it. Tell me if it is worth printing. Not that I want it printed—not a bit!”
“I begin to think, Molly, that anything you write must be worth printing! But I wonder you should ask one who has proved himself so incompetent to give a true opinion, that even what he has given he is unable to defend!”
“I shall always trust your opinion, Walter—only it must be an opinion: you gave a judgment then without having formed an opinion. Shall I read?”
“Yes, please, Molly. I never used to like having poetry read to me, but you can read poetry!”
“This is easy to read!” said Molly.
“See the countless angels hover!
See the mother bending over!
See the shepherds, kings and cow!
What is baby thinking now?
Oh, to think what baby thinks
Would be worth all holy inks!
But he smiles such lovingness,
That I will not fear to guess!—
‘Father called; you would not come!
Here I am to take you home!
‘For the father feels the dearth
Of his children round his hearth—
‘Wants them round and on his knee—
That’s his throne for you and me!’
Something lovely like to this
Surely lights that look of bliss!
Or if something else be there,
Then ‘tis something yet more fair;
For within the father’s breast
Lies the whole world in its nest,”
She ceased.