"Why, dear? who are you writing to?"
"My poor begonia is quite dead," sobbed Ethel, with a gulp of grief. "I want to write its epitaph."
"You mustn't cry about it now, Ethel dear. It could not feel. I shall get you another next summer."
But the only consolation Ethel could get was the writing of the epitaph. She worked at this for half an hour, and smeared herself very much with violet ink.
"Here is laid my pink begonia," was her first attempt.
Tom came into the room to learn his lessons at the other side of the table.
"Tom," she said, "please don't say your verbs out loud. I can't write poetry when you do. Tell me a rhyme for begonia. 'Here is laid my pink begonia.'"
"'Toss it over the wall, or let it alone-will-you?' That is the only rhyme in the English language," said Tom.
"You are very unkind," said Ethel, leaning her cheek on an inky hand, and rubbing her hair till it was a wild black mane. Then she tried what would happen if she began in quite a different way. At last she read out in sad tones:—
"Here my poor begonia lies,
Drop a tear and wipe your eyes."