"Yes, I must!" said the boy. "She sneaked off into the house when you
weren't looking, so she can't hear me, and when she's too far off to
hear, I have to call her some kind of a horrid name, 'cause it helps me
some!"

"But she's your own cousin, and you oughtn't, you know. If it isn't
wicked, it MUST be naughty to call her a ninny," said Rose.

"I wish she wasn't my cousin, I ain't fond of her," said the boy, with a
frown on his handsome face.

"She did a mean thing this morning, and I'll get even with her," he
continued, "and when she wrote one of her everlasting old poems about
me, it was more than I could stand. Just read it and I guess you won't
blame me."

He thrust a crumpled bit of paper over the hedge.

Rose ran to the hedge, and took the paper. She was curious to know what
kind of a poem Lester had inspired.

Who could blame her that she laughed when she read the ridiculous lines?

"Lester's a boy, but he's not brave;
The cat scratched him, and he cried.
He's not the kind of a boy I like
Although I've often tried.

His eyes are brown, but I don't care;
His freckles are yellow, and so is his hair.