The poet, head bent, absorbed in creation, did not hear.

"Missy! Where are you? Me-lis-sa!"

This time the voice cleaved into the mood of inspiration. With a
sigh Missy put the pad and pencil in the Anthology, laid the whole
on the bench, and obediently went to mind the Baby. But, as she
wheeled the perambulator up and down the front walk, her mind
liltingly repeated the words she had written, and she stepped along
in time to the rhythm. It was a fine rhythm. And, as soon as she was
relieved from duty, she rushed back to the temporary shrine of the
Muse. The words, now, flowed much more easily than at the beginning-
-one of the first lessons learned by all creative artists.


Gay banners from turrets streamed out in the air
And all Maple, Avenue turned out for the pair.
Ah! beauteous was she, that white-satin young bride,
But sorrow had reddened her deep purple eyes.
Each clatter of hoofs from the courtyard below
Did summon the blood swift to ebb and then flow;
For the gem on her finger, the flower in her hair,
Bound not her sad heart to that Cleveland man there.

Ah! who is this riding so fast through Main Street?
The gallant young lover--


Again, reiterant and increasingly imperative, summons from the house
slashed across her mood. Can't one's family ever appreciate the