"But where's the poem, Molly," cried Judy, when the racket had subsided. "We must see the poem."
"It's locked in my trunk."
"Get it out, get it out," they ordered, and she had no peace until she unlocked the trunk and, rummaging in her portfolio, found the original manuscript of "The Chalet of the West Wind."
"I can't see why it won the prize," she said. "I hadn't even the shadow of a hope when I sent it. It's not a bit like an ad."
"It was certainly what they wanted," said Sallie. "They didn't have to give you the prize, seeing that they had several hundred to choose from. But read it, because I'm in a fever of curiosity to hear it."
In the meantime, Judy had lit the gas, and taking Molly by the shoulders, pushed her into a chair under the light.
"I'm most awfully embarrassed," announced Molly, "but here goes," and she read the following verses:
The Chalet of the West Wind.
"Wind of the West, Wind of the West,
Breathe on my little chalet.
Blow over summer fields,
Bring all their perfume yields,
Lily and clover and hay.
"Bring all the joys of spring,
Soft-kissing zephyrs bring,
Peace of the mountains and hills,
Waken the columbine,
Stir the sweet breath of pine,
Hasten the late daffodils.