HOW TO MAKE ANAGRAMS.
“Now that’s too bad!” exclaimed little Bess, striking her pencil down quickly on the slate, which had for five minutes been shaded by her brown curls, as she bent earnestly over it. “I do say it’s too bad.”
“What is too bad, Bess?” asked her oldest sister, Mary, who, apparently occupied with her history, had been stealing occasional glances at the animated face over the slate, and watching with pleasing interest the busy fingers putting down letters, and tripping back and forth among them with her pencil-point. “What is too bad, Bess? I thought something was pleasing you very much.”
“Oh! did you? Well, I was just ready to have such a good one—these anagrams, you know. I surely thought I had extra axes, and just because of an r, it’s all spoiled!”
“What were you going to make your extra axes out of?” asked Mary, with a curious smile.
“Now, don’t make fun of me, please. Artaxerxes was my word.”
“Well, I should think that would just make it,” said Mary, thoughtfully. “Are you sure it will not?”