hummed Elizabeth, leaning suddenly forward and drawing out a drawer in her desk close by. She rummaged through its contents for a moment, and then laid a dainty brown and gold book in the girl's hands, saying, "That reminds me. When I was a little girl not much older than you are now, my mother was very ill for a long time, and my sister Esther and I were sent away from home to live with a lame old aunt in a lonely little house about a mile from the nearest neighbor's. Needless to say, we got very homesick with no one to play with or amuse us, and the days were often so long that we were glad when night came so we could sleep and forget our childish troubles. Though Aunt Nancy was not accustomed to children, she soon discovered our loneliness and set about to mend matters as best she could. But the old house had very little in it for us to play with, the books were all too old for us to understand, and like you, we were not overly fond of sewing. So poor old auntie was at her wit's end to know what to do with us when she happened to think of her diary."
"Did she have many cows?"
"Cows?"
"In her diary."
"Oh, child, that is dairy you mean. A diary is a record of each day's events—all the little things that happen from week to week—sort of a written history of one's life."
"H'm, I shouldn't think that would be fun," Peace commented candidly, still holding the unopened volume in her hand, thinking it was another uninteresting story-book. "I don't like writing any better than I do sewing."
"Neither did I, but Esther was rather fond of scribbling, and Aunt Nancy's diary was one of the brightest, sprightliest histories of common, everyday affairs that we ever read, and we were both greatly amused over it. She had kept a faithful record for years—not every day, or even every week, but just when she happened to feel like writing, so it was no drudgery.
"She was quite given to making rhymes, as you call it, and we were astonished to find several very beautiful little poems and stories that she had written just for her own enjoyment; for she had always lived alone a great deal, and these little blank books of hers held the thoughts that she could not speak to other folks because there were no folks to talk with. Esther was several years older than I, and she knew a lady who wrote for magazines. So, unbeknown to Aunt Nancy, she copied a number of the prettiest verses and sent them to this author, who not only had them printed, but begged for more. I never shall forget how pleased Aunt Nancy was, and I think it was that which decided us girls to try keeping a diary, too. We raced each other good-naturedly, to see who could write the queerest fancies or longest rhymes, and many an hour have we whiled away, scribbling in the dusty attic."
"Did you ever get anything printed?" Peace was becoming interested, for Gail had secret ambitions along this line, and such matters as poems, stories and publishers were often discussed in the home circle.
"No," sighed Elizabeth, a trifle wistfully, perhaps, as she thought of that dear dream of her girlhood days. "I soon came to the conclusion that poets are born and not made. But Esther has been quite successful in writing short stories for magazines, and she lays it all to the summer we spent with Aunt Nancy on that dreary farm."