"B" division closed its composition books and began to recite under Miss Brown's guidance,
And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.
For two long weeks they had been memorizing "The First Snow-Fall," but were not as yet, letter-perfect in the verses. The teacher encouraged them. Twenty odd juvenile voices resumed the choppy, monotonous chant. John gripped his pencil with new life.
Poetry! That was the only way to express your sentiments! Why hadn't he thought of it before? Once, in third grade, he had composed a masterpiece:
Think, think, what do you think?
A mouse ran under the kitchen sink.
The old maid chased it
With dustpan and broom
And kicked it and knocked it
Right out of the room.
The slip of paper had been passed to a chum for appreciation, only to have Miss O'Rourke pounce upon the effort and read it to an uproarious class. His ears burned, even now, at that memory.
But there would be no second disaster. He began on the ruled sheet boldly,
"Beloved Louise!"
Then came a pause. Oh for a first line! You couldn't start out with "I love you." That would make further words unnecessary. What did people usually put in poems? All about stars, and the warm south wind and roses. A fugitive bit of verse echoed in his brain. "The rose—" He had it now!
The rose is red,
The violet's blue,
This will tell you
I love you.