“O, being at school is pretty good—
But going home is—
I’ll be full of joy when the term is—
And I’ll write you a farewell—”
“The ‘fun,’ ‘done,’ ‘better,’ ‘letter,’ that belong to that verse are what I call self-evident rhymes,” said Lily, “and it’s no fun to guess them, for they say themselves, almost. Now, wait till I write you something grand, gloomy, and obscure, with rhymes that don’t shout themselves out at you.”
“After Browning, I suppose.”
“O, miles after. Now, hush, or I can’t hear the whispering of my muse.” And Lily rolled up her eyes, and with her hand bending her ear forward put on a rapt appearance of listening. Then with a bow to the corner of the ceiling and a grateful, “Thanks, thanks, madam, for your timely assistance,” supposed to be addressed to the obliging but invisible muse, she began to scribble rapidly, in a few moments handing this effusion to Edna to read:
“Oft in the chilly—
When wandering cats are—
I fly out to the—