"What is his name?"

"Mr. Barlow. We live in Springfield," volunteered the new guest,
unbending a trifle, thanks to the charms of the cake.

"Have you a mamma, dear?"

"She takes naps. I go to walk then."

"Without leave, I suspect. Have you no brothers or sisters to go with
you?" asked Miss Celia, wondering where the little runaway belonged.

"I have two brothers, Thomas Merton Barlow and Harry Sanford Barlow. I
am Alfred Tennyson Barlow. We don't have any girls in our house, only
Bridget."

"Don't you go to school?"

"The boys do. I don't learn any Greeks and Latins yet. I dig, and read
to mamma, and make poetrys for her."

"Couldn't you make some for me? I'm very fond of poetrys," proposed
Miss Celia, seeing that this prattle amused the children.

"I guess I couldn't make any now; I made some coming along. I will say
it to you."

And, crossing his short legs, the inspired babe half said, half sung
the following poem:[B]