I am tired of living here.”
“It takes Melinda to string off the rhymes,” said Ichabod, who took his sister at her own valuation, and firmly believed her to be a genius. “She writes ’em just as easy!”
“Do you share her talent, Mr. Jones?” asked Walter, gravely.
“Me? I couldn’t write poetry if you was to pay me ten dollars a line. I shouldn’t want to, either, if I’d got to feel as Melinda says she does in them verses she just read.”
“It is the penalty of a too-sensitive soul. Surely you have had such feelings, Mr. Howard. I am afraid you were not favorably impressed by my poor verses.”
This she said, anxious to draw out expressions of admiration.
“The lines are very smooth, Miss Jones,” said Walter, “but I cannot say I ever have quite such feelings. I am of a cheerful temperament, and my muse would not soar to such lofty heights as yours.”
“I envy you, Mr. Howard,” said Melinda, with a sigh. “I wish my muse were not so thoughtful and contemplative. Have you not some poem you could read us? Mr. Barclay says you are a poet.”
“I am afraid Mr. Barclay has spoken without authority.”
“Come, Mr. Howard, you must read Miss Jones the verses you wrote this afternoon.”