"Or, as that is not very amusing, suppose we cap verses? I hear you know a great deal of poetry—Mr. Wolffert told me. I never knew any one with such a memory as his." I recognized the suggestion as a flag of truce.
I bowed, and as, of course, "Mary had a little lamb," was the first thing that popped into my head with its hint of personal application, I foolishly quoted the first verse, intending her to make the personal application.
She was prompt to continue it, with, I thought, a little sub-tone of mischief in her voice:
"It followed her to school one day,
Which was against the rule,"
she said demurely. There she stopped, so I took up the challenge.
"Which made the children laugh and say
'A lamb's a little fool.'"
It was a silly and inept ending, I knew as soon as I had finished—still, it conveyed my meaning.
She paused a moment and evidently started to look at me, but as evidently she thought better of it. She, however, murmured, "I thought we would quote verses, not make them."
I took this to be a confession that she was not able to make them, and I determined to show how much cleverer I was; so, without noticing the cut of the eye which told of her wavering, I launched out:
"There was a young lady of fashion,
Who, finding she'd made quite a mash on
A certain young swain,
Who built castles in Spain,
Fell straight in a terrible passion."