Ellen had been about five weeks with her aunt when she and Charles set out together on this walk. The sun was only an hour high, yet it was still warm, and she sauntered slowly along. Charles had lately become very expert in walking on stilts. As this was a very recent accomplishment, he was still very vain of it, and might generally be seen looking over the heads of people taller than himself. Especially did Charles pride himself on his ability to go on stilts over the bridge, which was in reality as safe for him as the dry ground, so long as he kept steadily on. On the afternoon of which we are speaking, he was elevated as usual, and would at one time stride rapidly on before Ellen, and then turn and come slowly back to her, and then wheel around and around her, ever, as he went and came, discoursing, not of what he could do, but of what his brother George could, for proud as he might be of his own powers, Charles was always ready to acknowledge that George excelled him. Ellen's temper was perhaps a little influenced by the sultry weather. However this may be, she certainly did not feel very pleasantly, and had more than once during their walk evinced considerable impatience. Several times she begged that Charles would not wheel around her so, as it made her dizzy—that he would keep farther off, as she was afraid of his stilts striking her—and at length she exclaimed, "Do, Charles, talk about something else besides what George can do. I am sick of hearing of it. I wonder if there is any thing that you think he cannot do."
Charles was vexed at this disrespect to George, and there was a little malice in the reply, "Yes, I don't think George can write poetry, as some other people I know can. I found some poetry this morning," he added, looking archly at Ellen, "and I am sure you will like it when you see it published in the G—— Mirror."
Ellen's face became crimson. Did any of my young readers ever attempt to write poetry? If so, they have only to remember how carefully they concealed their first effort, how much abashed they were at the idea of its being seen, how sensitive to the least appearance of ridicule, to understand the cause of Ellen's blush. Ellen had made more than one effort, but there was only one of her productions which she had ever thought of sufficient importance to preserve. This was a piece addressed to Mary, which she had kept with the hope that she might one day gather courage to send it to her. She had supposed it safe at the very bottom of the black silk bag which she carried on her arm, but she now began to fear, from the manner of Charles, that he had in some way got it. In this she was right. Ellen had not been so careful as she supposed in putting the paper into her bag, and afterwards, in drawing her handkerchief out, it had fallen unperceived upon the floor. Here Charles had found it. He read it, and saw by the handwriting it was Ellen's. Remembering the letter scene, he faithfully resolved not to tease her about it, but after he should have shown it to George, to give it to her without saying a word of his acquaintance with the contents. Ellen had vexed him now, however, and it was impossible to avoid making use of such an excellent mode of punishment. Charles saw Ellen's blush, but this proof of his power only stimulated him to fresh mischief. He stopped, and taking off his cap drew the paper from the inner side of the crown lining, where it had been carefully placed to secure it from the observation of others. Ellen, in the mean time, desirous of appearing quite unconcerned, passed on to the bridge, and was already upon it when Charles overtook her, exclaiming, "Stop, Ellen: what are you running off for? stop and hear it," which only made Ellen walk the faster.
"Well," said Charles, "you have no idea what you are losing," and he commenced repeating a piece of doggerel which had been manufactured by some boy he had known in G——
"The gardens were full of bright young greens,
The patches were full of corn and beans."
The artifice was successful. Ellen, relieved from her fears, turned round with a smile to listen, and Charles, planting his stilts in such a manner that she could not pass him in either direction without approaching nearer to the edge of the narrow bridge than she would like to do, held a paper in his hand high above her reach, and read from it in a loud voice, and with much flourish and parade—
"To Mary.
Companion of my early years,
Who shared my joys, who soothed my tears."
"Let me go, Charles," exclaimed Ellen, endeavoring in vain to pass.
"Who smiled when others' looks grew dark?"