“Go ahead, niece; what have you got?”
“Oh, it’s only a trifle, Mynheer,” put in the catechist. “My son is a poet. I don’t praise him, because he’s too close kin to me; but he’s a clever fellow—I can say that without bragging—for everything comes from above. No, I won’t praise him—praise is for the Master alone. But he’s a clever fellow.”
The poet Klaas looked conscious, and sat toying with the bottom button on his vest. He looked poetical all over.
“And so, Mynheer, without bragging—get it out, my son. As a father, Mynheer, I may say that he’s a clever fellow; for in the Bible——”
Klaasje drew a piece of paper from his pocket.
“In the Bible there is really nothing said about widowers—the Master has his own good reasons for it—but what does the boy do? He takes the hint and writes a whole poem on widows.”
Klaasje laid the paper on the table.
“Yes, I dare say, he has brought into it all the widows mentioned in the Bible.”
“You see it’s a surprise. I told you so,” said Juffrouw Laps.
“Read it, Klaasje! There are seventy, Mynheer, seventy widows. Read, my boy.”