“Then why don’t you say travel? I think it’s the nicest word.”
“But it is not so uncommon,” said Maggie; “and you know when people write poetry they always put in all the uncommon words they can find.”
“Do they?” said Bessie, as if she did not quite approve of this rule.
“Yes, to be sure,” answered Maggie. “You know prose is just common talking; but poetry is uncommon talking, and you have to make it sound as fine as you can, and put words you don’t use every day.”
“Oh!” said Bessie. “Well, if you have done, I guess we’d better give papa back his book.”
Accordingly, the book was carried to papa, who had not had any idea that Maggie’s poetical fancy would carry her so far, and who was rather surprised to see several pages scribbled over with verses that were lined and interlined, scratched out and written over, in a manner which did not add to the beauty or neatness of the book.
However, he only laughed, and taking out his penknife carefully cut out the scribbled leaves and gave them to the little poetess, who rolled them up, and tying them round with a bit of twine, stowed them away in her satchel, till such time as she should be ready to copy and add to them.
But she did not find leisure for this till they had been at Niagara for two or three days; and then, when she looked in her travelling-bag for the precious poem, lo! it was gone! In vain did she and Bessie take out all the other contents from the satchel, shake it, and feel in each corner and pocket: no poem came to light, and great was the sorrowing over its loss.
“Then I s’pose I’ll never hear of it again,” said Bessie, regretfully, when mamma said she thought Maggie must have pulled it out with some of the other things her bag contained, and so dropped it, unseen.
But poor Maggie was to hear of her poem again; to hear a little too much of it.