“It wasn’t your Dickens who said it, but you can, perhaps, tell me who did write a verse that has been running in my unpoetical brain ever since I entered your fairy bower,” he said by and by.
“The orchard’s all a-flutter with pink;
Robins’ twitter, and wild bees’ humming
Break the song with a thrill to think
How sweet is life when summer is coming.
“That is the way it goes, I believe. It is a miracle for me to recollect so much rhyme. The robins and bees must have helped me out.”
“I wish I knew who did that!” sighed Hester. “Oh! what it must be to write poetry or paint pictures!”
March’s glance of mirthful suspicion changed at sight of the knotted brow and wistful eyes.
“One ought to be thankful for either gift,” he said quietly. “I was thinking just now how I should like to make a picture of what I saw as I ran up the hill. May I try some day?”