"'Come to me, O ye children!
And whisper in my ear
What the birds and the winds are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.
"'For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses,
And the gladness of your looks?
"'Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;
For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead.'"
"Well," breathed Peace in evident relief, as he lingeringly repeated the last stanza, "that sounds a little more like it. Maybe with that book I can learn her old poem now."
"Those are beautiful verses, Peace," he rebuked her.
"Yes, I 'xpect they are. I haven't got any grudge against the verses, but it takes a beautifully long time for me to learn anything like that, too." She seized the fat volume with both hands, tipped back among the hammock cushions, and with her feet swinging idly back and forth, began an animated study of the right version of the words, while the minister strolled back to the house to enjoy the joke with Elizabeth.
But though Peace studied industriously and faithfully during the remaining days, she could not seem to master the lines in spite of all the minister's coaching, and in spite of Miss Peyton's struggle with her after school each day.
"There is no sense in making such hard work of a simple little poem like that," declared the teacher, closing her lips in a straight line and looking very much exasperated after an hour's battle with the child Tuesday afternoon. "You have just made up your mind that you will learn it, and that is where the whole trouble lies."
"That's where you are mistaken," sobbed Peace forlornly, though her eyes flashed with indignation as she wiped away her tears. "It's you which has got her mind made up, and you and me ain't the same people. I just can't seem to make those words stick, and I might as well give up trying right now."
"You will have that poem perfectly learned tomorrow afternoon, or I shall know the reason why."