Where’er you chance to be,
And you shall always, buttercup,
Be a flower dear to me.”
Emily felt very proud. This was her third poem and undoubtedly her best. Nobody could say it was very blank. She must hurry up to the garret and write it on a letter-bill. But Aunt Elizabeth was confronting her on the steps.
“Emily, where are your boots and stockings?”
Emily came back from cloudland with a disagreeable jolt. She had forgotten all about boots and stockings.
“In the hole by the gate,” she said flatly.
“You went to the store barefooted?”
“Yes.”
“After I had told you not to?”