Finally, he came to the window and spoke to her.
“Carolyn May,” he said, “what are you writing?”
“Oh, Mr. Driggs, is that you?” said the little girl, getting up quickly and coming nearer. “Did you ever have to write a composition?”
“Yes, Carolyn May, I have to write one or two each week.” And he sighed.
“Oh yes! So you do!” the little girl agreed. “You have to write sermons. And that must be a terribly tedious thing to do, for they have to be longer than my composition—a great deal longer.”
“So it is a composition that is troubling you,” the minister remarked.
“Yes, sir. I don’t know what to write—I really don’t. Miss Minnie says for us not to try any flights of fancy. I don’t just know what those are. But she says, write what is in us. Now, that don’t seem like a composition,” added Carolyn May doubtfully.
“What doesn’t?”
“Why, writing what is in us,” explained the little girl, staring in a puzzled fashion at her slate, on which she had written several lines. “You see, I have written down all the things that I ’member is in me.”
“For pity’s sake! let me see it, child,” said the minister, quickly reaching down for the slate. When he brought it to a level with his eyes he was amazed by the following: