Oh, I hate that d--n word, Buster."
"Hit is a bit narsty," assented the boy.
"--we feel obliged to return your poem entitled 'To Bessie.'"
"Confound them!"
Unfolding the poem, Moore ran his eye over its neatly written lines.
At this moment the door behind him opened softly, and Bessie crept in as quietly as any mouse. Buster saw her, and, leaning over the table, asked his master to read him the rejected verses.
"Certainly, Buster, since you wish it," said Moore, good-naturedly. "It will help on your literary education."
"That hit will, sir," said Buster, stepping where he could motion Bessie to remain silent without being detected by his master.
"'To Bessie,'" announced Moore, beginning to read, little thinking that the girl was so near.
"Tho' brimmed with blessings, pure and rare,
Life's cup before me lay,
Unless thy love were mingled there
I 'd spurn the draught away.
"Without thy smile the monarch's lot
To me were dark and lone,
While, with it, even the humblest cot
Were brighter than his throne.
"Those worlds for which the conqueror sighs
For me would have no charms,
My only world thy gentle eyes,
My throne thy circling arms."