“Really?” said Ailie, with twinkling eyes.
“Sort of poetry,” said Bud. “Not so good as 'As You Like It'—not 'nearly' so good, of course! I have loads of really, really poetry inside me, but it sticks at the bends and then I get bits that fit, made by somebody else, and wish I had been spry and said them first. Other times I'm the real Winifred Wallace.”
“Winifred Wallace?” said Aunt Ailie, inquiringly.
“Winifred Wallace,” repeated Bud, composedly. “I'm her. It's my—it's my poetry name. 'Bud Dyce' wouldn't be any use for the magazines; it's not dinky enough.”
“Bless me, child, you don't tell me you write poetry for the magazines?” said her astonished aunt.
“No,” said Bud, “but I'll be pretty liable to when I'm old enough to wear specs. That's if I don't go on the stage.”
“On the stage!” exclaimed Ailie, full of wild alarm.
“Yes,” said the child. “Mrs. Molyneux said I was a born actress.”
“I wonder, I wonder,” said Aunt Ailie, staring into vacancy.