“Well,—yes,—you may stay in the kitchen, if you like, for this once. Certainly, I have no objection to your learning to write poetry,” and she walked away, laughing quietly.
Surely enough, when night fell, and Comfort, radiant in a showy, new, red cotton turban, sat down to her knitting,—her day’s work over, everything in its place, and the kitchen-floor white with extreme cleanliness,—Nell came skipping into the room, pencil and paper in hand.
“You see,” she said, as she arranged her writing materials on the table, and drew the solitary tallow candle towards her; “you see, Comfort, school breaks up next week, and the spring vacation begins. It lasts a month, only think of it! Will not I have good times, eh? Johnny Bixby,—you know Johnny Bixby, Comfort? well, he goes to his home in the city as soon as vacation commences, and as we may not see him again, he wants each of the little girls to write him some poetry so that he can remember us by it; and that’s the way I come to want to learn how.”
“Oh,” said Comfort, “I understand now. Johnny boards with those ar Harrowses, eh?”
“Yes,” said Nell; “and he’s such a very quiet boy, you’ve no idea, Comfort.”
"He’s the fust quiet boy ever I heerd on, then," said Comfort. “Weel, what do you want to say to Johnny in your poetry? That’s the first and important p’int; don’t begin to write till you finds what you are a goin’ to say.”
"Oh, I want to tell him good-bye, and all that sort of thing, Comfort, and how I hope we will meet again. I’ve got the first line all written; that’s some help isn’t it? Melindy’s and my first lines are just alike, ’cause we made it up between us."
“How does it go?” asked Comfort, puffing at her pipe.
“This way,” said Nelly, taking up her paper and reading:
“Our days of youth will soon be o’er.”