“Well,” said Comfort, after a moment’s reflection, “I think that’s very good. Now you must find something to rhyme with that ar word ‘o’er.’”
Nelly bent over her papers, and seemed to be considering very hard indeed. Once she put forth her hand as if she were going to write, but drew it back again. Evidently she found writing poetry very difficult work. Comfort was looking at her, too, and that made her nervous, and even the solemn stare of the cat, Nancy, from the hearth, where she sat purring, added to her embarrassment.
“Oh, Comfort,” she said, at last, with a deep sigh; “I can’t! I wonder if Johnny Bixby would take as much trouble as this for me. Do tell me what rhymes with ‘o’er,’ Comfort!”
"‘O’er,’ ‘o’er,’" repeated Comfort, slowly; “why, tore, gnaw, boar, roar, and such like. Roar is very good.”
"But I don’t want ‘roar’ in poetry, Comfort," said Nelly, considerably ruffled. “I don’t see how you can bring ‘roar’ in. I wonder if ‘more’ would not do.”
She took up her pencil, and in a little while, with beaming eyes, read to her listener these lines:
“Our days of youth will soon be o’er,
In Harrows’ school we’ll meet no more.”
“That’s pretty fair, isn’t it, Comfort?”
"’Pears like," was the answer that came from a cloud of smoke on the other side of the room. “I’m sorry the ‘roar’ couldn’t come in, though. Don’t disremember to say something nice about his writin’ to tell yer if he gits safe home, and so, and so.”
“No,” said Nell; "I’ll not"—“forget” she meant to have added, but just then came a heavy knock on the kitchen-door that made both of them start.