"Yes—it is growing up again for another summer," he said. "I found it a week ago; but I kept it for a birthday surprise."
"Tom," said Ethel, seizing his arm in her delight, "put my poetry in your pocket, and let us go and ask mother if we should put it in a pot."
"What? put the poetry in a pot? Whatever for?"
"Oh! no, I didn't mean that at all—I mean——"
"Never mind—here go the verses, though they've served their turn."
So the pink plant went into a pot again, and grew more beautiful than ever; and the only poetry Ethel ever made went into Tom's pocket.