for her as you did for Alice Robinson's canary bird, only still
better, of course, like that you read me out of your thought
book."

"I could, easy enough," exclaimed Rebecca, somewhat consoled by
the idea that her rhyming faculty could be of any use in such an
emergency. "Though I don't know but it would be kind of bold to
do it. I'm all puzzled about how people get to heaven after
they're buried. I can't understand it a bit; but if the poetry is
on her, what if that should go, too? And how could I write
anything good enough to be read out loud in heaven?"

"A little piece of paper couldn't get to heaven; it just
couldn't," asserted Emma Jane decisively. "It would be all blown
to pieces and dried up. And nobody knows that the angels can read
writing, anyway."

"They must be as educated as we are, and more so, too," agreed
Rebecca. "They must be more than just dead people, or else why
should they have wings? But I'll go off and write something while
you finish the rope; it's lucky you brought your crochet cotton
and I my lead pencil."

In fifteen or twenty minutes she returned with some lines written
on a scrap of brown wrapping paper. Standing soberly by Emma
Jane, she said, preparing to read them aloud: "They're not good;
I was afraid your father'd come back before I finished, and the
first verse sounds exactly like the funeral hymns in the church
book. I couldn't call her Sally Winslow; it didn't seem nice when
I didn't know her and she is dead, so I thought if I said friend'