“Aunt Elizabeth has given me the little right hand top burow drawer to keep my things in.
“Oh, Father dear, I have made a great diskoverry. I wish I had made it when you were alive for I think you’d have liked to know. I can write poetry. Perhaps I could have written it long ago if I’d tried. But after that first day in school I felt I was bound in honnour to try and it is so easy. There is a little curly black-covered book in Aunt Elizabeth’s bookcase called Thompson’s Seasons and I decided I would write a poem on a season and the first three lines are,
Now Autumn comes ripe with the peech and pear,
The sportsman’s horn is heard throughout the land,
And the poor partridge fluttering falls dead.
“Of course there are no peeches in P. E. Island and I never heard a sportsman’s horn here either, but you don’t have to stick too close to facts in poetry. I filled a whole letterbill with it and then I ran and read it to Aunt Laura. I thought she would be overjoyed to find she had a niece who could write poetry but she took it very coolly and said it didn’t sound much like poetry. It’s blank verse I cryed. Very blank said Aunt Elizabeth sarkastically though I hadn’t asked her opinion. But I think I will write ryming poetry after this so that there will be no mistake about it and I intend to be a poetess when I grow up and become famus. I hope also that I will be silph-like. A poetess should be silph-like. Cousin Jimmy makes poetry too. He has made over 1000 pieces but he never writes any down but carries them in his head. I offered to give him some of my letterbills — for he is very kind to me — but he said he was too old to learn new habits. I haven’t heard any of his poetry yet because the spirit hasn’t moved him but I am very angshus to and I am sorry they don’t fatten the pigs till the fall. I like Cousin Jimmy more and more all the time, except when he takes his queer spells of looking and talking. Then he fritens me but they never last long. I have read a good many of the books in the New Moon bookcase. A history of the reformation in France, very relijus and sad. A little fat book deskribing the months in England and the afoursaid Thompson’s Seasons. I like to read them because they have so many pretty words in them, but I don’t like the feel of them. The paper is so rough and thick it makes me creepy. Travels in Spain, very fassinating, with lovely smooth shiny paper, a missionary book on the Pacific Islands, pictures very interesting because of the way the heathen chiefs arrange their hair. After they became Christians they cut it off which I think was a pity. Mrs Hemans Poems. I am passhunately fond of poetry, also of stories about desert islands. Rob Roy, a novel, but I only read a little of it when Aunt Elizabeth said I must stop because I must not read novels. Aunt Laura says to read it on the sly. I don’t see why it wouldn’t be all right to obey Aunt Laura but I have a queer feeling about it and I haven’t yet. A lovely Tiger-book, full of pictures and stories of tigers that make me feel so nice and shivery. The Royal Road, also relijus but some fun in it so very good for Sundays. Reuben and Grace, a story but not a novel, because Reuben and Grace are brother and sister and there is no getting married. Little Katy and Jolly Jim, same as above but not so exciting and traggic. Nature’s Mighty Wonders which is good and improving. Alice in Wonderland, which is perfectly lovely, and the Memoirs of Anzonetta B. Peters who was converted at seven and died at twelve. When anybody asked for a question she answered with a hym verse. That is after she was converted. Before that she spoke English. Aunt Elizabeth told me I ought to try to be like Anzonetta. I think I might be an Alice under more faverable circumstances but I am sure I can never be as good as Anzonetta was and I don’t believe I want to be because she never had any fun. She got sick as soon as she was converted and suffered aggonies for years. Besides I am sure that if I talked hyms to people it would exite ridicule. I tried it once. Aunt Laura asked me the other day if I would like blue stripes better than red in my next winter’s stockings and I answered just as Anzonetta did when asked a similar question, only different, about a sack,
Jesus Thy blood and rightchusness
My beauty are, my glorious dress.
And Aunt Laura said was I crazy and Aunt Elizabeth said I was irreverent. So I know it wouldn’t work. Besides, Anzonetta couldn’t eat anything for years having ulsers in her stomach and I am pretty fond of good eating.
“Old Mr Wales on the Derry Pond Road is dying of canser. Jennie Strang says his wife has her morning all ready.
“I wrote a biograffy of Saucy Sal to-day and a deskripshun of the road in Lofty John’s bush. I will pin them to this letter so you can read them too. Good night my beloved Father.
“Yours most obedient humble servant,
“Emily B. Starr.
“P. S. I think Aunt Laura loves me. I like to be loved, Father dear.
“E. B. S.”
Growing Pains
There was a great deal of suppressed excitement in school during the last week in June, the cause thereof being Rhoda Stuart’s birthday party, which was to take place early in July. The amount of heart-burning was incredible. Who was to be invited? That was the great question. There were some who knew they wouldn’t and some who knew they would; but there were more who were in truly horrible suspense. Everybody paid court to Emily because she was Rhoda’s dearest friend and might conceivably have some voice in the selection of guests. Jennie Strang even went as far as bluntly to offer Emily a beautiful white box with a gorgeous picture of Queen Victoria on the cover, to keep her pencils in, if she would procure her an invitation. Emily refused the bribe and said grandly that she could not interfere in such a delicate matter. Emily really did put on some airs about it. She was sure of her invitation. Rhoda had told her about the party weeks before and had talked it all over with her. It was to be a very grand affair — a birthday cake covered with pink icing and adorned with ten tall pink candles — ice-cream and oranges — and written invitations on pink, gilt-edged notepaper sent through the postoffice — this last being an added touch of exclusiveness. Emily dreamed about that party day and night and had her present all ready for Rhoda — a pretty hair-ribbon which Aunt Laura had brought from Shrewsbury.
On the first Sunday in July Emily found herself sitting beside Jennie Strang in Sunday-school for the opening exercises. Generally she and Rhoda sat together, but now Rhoda was sitting three seats ahead with a strange little girl — a very gay and gorgeous little girl, dressed in blue silk, with a large, flower-wreathed leghorn hat on her elaborately curled hair, white lacework stockings on her pudgy legs and a bang that came clean down to her eyes. Not all her fine feathers could make a really fine bird of her, however; she was not in the least pretty and her expression was cross and contemptuous.
“Who is the girl sitting with Rhoda?” whispered Emily.
“Oh, she’s Muriel Porter,” answered Jennie. “She’s a towny, you know. She’s come out to spend her vacation with her aunt, Jane Beatty. I hate her. If I was her I’d never dream of wearing blue with a skin as dark as hers. But the Porters are rich and Muriel thinks she’s a wonder. They say Rhoda and her have been awful thick since she came out — Rhoda’s always chasing after anybody she thinks is up in the world.”
Emily stiffened up. She was not going to listen to disparaging remarks about her friends. Jennie felt the stiffening and changed her note.
“Anway, I’m glad I’m not invited to Rhoda’s old party. I wouldn’t want to go when Muriel Porter will be there, putting on her airs.”
“How do you know you are not invited?” wondered Emily.
“Why, the invitations went out yesterday. Didn’t you get yours?”
“No — o — o.”
“Did