“Because you are always reading poetry. I see you are reading ‘Lady of the Lake.’ Do you like it?”
“Like it? Indeed, I do; it is beautiful.”
“Well, I like poetry, but mama almost goes wild over it. She thinks anyone who can write poetry is wonderful. Mama is real funny; you’ll never tell anyone if I tell you in what way, will you?”
“No.”
“Well, you know mama often takes books to her room; she hardly ever comes here to read; she likes to be by herself, and I will tell you why. She would like to be a poet herself, and if you liked to write it as well as you like to read it, she would think you were just splendid.”
“I cannot write poetry; I wish I could.”
“Why don’t you try?”
“How can I when I do not know anything about it?”
“Oh, just make up something that rhymes.”
“I would not want to make poetry just for the sake of a rhyme; I would want some beauty in it—some—well, some soul. But is that what you were going to tell me?”