"I never should have thought he could make verses," she continued.
"Oh! making verses is the smallest part of being a poet, Nellie," said Mr. March. "You can't understand that yet; but you will some day."
Then they all went into the house, and looked at room after room, thinking what they would do with each. The rooms were sunny and bright, but were so dirty that Mrs. March groaned.
"Oh, how shall we ever get this place clean?"
"I'll tell you," said Billy. "If ye don't mind the expense o' stayin' at the hotel a week, an' if ye'll buy me a little paint, I'll have this hull place so ye won't know it, in a week's time. There's nothin' I can't turn my hand to; an' I'd like to fix things up here for you, first rate. I saw up 't the other place about how you like things."
Billy had a quick eye for everything that was pretty. He had never seen any house in Colorado which was so cosey and pretty as the Marches' house in the Ute Pass; and he was thinking now in his heart how he would like to make this new one as pretty as that.
"Mebbe you couldn't trust me," he said, seeing that Mrs. March hesitated.
"Oh, yes, I could, Billy," she replied; "I have no doubt you could put it all in beautiful order. I was thinking whether we ought to stay"—she was going to say, "stay a whole week at the hotel"—but, just at that minute, there came piercing shrieks in Rob's voice:
"Papa! papa! Billy; come! come!"
The shrieks came from the direction of the creek.