“Half of some of them and all of this one.” Judy pointed. “The words ‘Joy’ and ‘toy’ are repeated too many times.”
“That’s the first thing one notices,” the old lady replied, evidently pleased with Judy’s suggestion. “How do you like that poetry?”
“I don’t like it,” the girl replied frankly. “It sounds as if the writer had a distorted idea of life. It depresses a person just to read it.”
“There are people who like to be depressed.”
“I suppose so,” Judy answered wearily. She could see that the conversation was getting them nowhere, and Irene must be dreadfully tired of waiting. Besides, she did not care to stand and argue with as queer a person as Emily Grimshaw seemed to be. Why, she was more peculiar, even, than the matron at camp or the queer old lady who ran the dog and cat hospital.
“Would you like me to sit down and type the poem for you now?” Judy suggested. “Then you could see exactly what I mean.”
The old lady consented with a wave of her hand, and Judy set to work. The task was not an easy one, and when she had finished cutting out all the queer-sounding lines the poem was about half its original length. Hardly knowing whether to expect praise or criticism, she handed the revised poem to Emily Grimshaw and waited while she read:
When Love turns thief ’tis memories that sting;
When Joy departs ’tis memories that burn.
Better to crumble in a tower of flame