“I don’t know,” she returned thoughtfully. “There was one time when I was little, and it had sleeted, and the sun came out just before it set, and seemed to set all the woods on fire. I thought the world was burning up.”
“It must have been very weird,” said Kendricks; and I thought, “Oh, good heavens! Has he got to talking of weird things?”
“It’s strange,” he added, “how we all have that belief when we are children that the world is going to burn up! I don’t suppose any child escapes it. Do you remember that poem of Thompson’s—the City of Dreadful Night man—where he describes the end of the world?”
“No, I never read it.”
“Well, merely, he says when the conflagration began the little flames looked like crocuses breaking through the sod. If it ever happened I fancy it would be quite as simple as that. But perhaps you don’t like gloomy poetry?”
“Yes, yes, I do. It’s the only kind that I care about.”
“Then you hate funny poetry?”
“I think it’s disgusting. Papa is always cutting it out of the papers and wanting to send it to me, and we have the greatest times!”
“I suppose,” said Kendricks, “it expresses some moods, though.”
“Oh yes; it expresses some moods; and sometimes it makes me laugh in spite of myself, and ashamed of anything serious.”