We made no answer.
"Did you want to know about my brother Jimmy?" said she, after another pause.
"Yes," said I, "we'd be glad to hear all about him."
"Well, I'll tell you all about it," said she. "Jimmy's hurt very bad—because he was runned over by a wagon—because he got in the way—because he didn't see it—because a gentleman wanted a paper on the other side of the street—because Jimmy was selling them—because he wanted to get money—because he had to pay a great lot of it to a naughty, ugly boy that lives over that way somewhere—because he just touched one of that boy's old things, and it fell right to pieces. And he said Jimmy'd got to pay money for it, and shouldn't come in his house any more. And Jimmy was saving all his money to pay; and he's got two dollars and a half already from the papers, besides a dollar that Isaac Holman gave him to write a poem for him. And that makes almost five dollars, I guess."
"Let's go home," said Ned.
But I lingered to ask one question of the voluble little maiden.
"What poem did Jimmy write for Isaac Holman?"
"I don't know," she answered. "It's the only poem Jimmy ever wouldn't read to me. He said it was very particular, and he mustn't let anybody see it."
A literary light dawned in upon me, as we slowly walked away.
Ned was silent for a long time. At last he spoke.