"Oh, SUSAN!" It was as if a bubble had been pricked, leaving nothing
but empty air.

"But you don't know--you don't understand, yet," pleaded Susan,
unerringly reading the disappointment in her employer's face. "It's to
sell--to get some money, you know, for the operator on the poor lamb's
eyes. I--I wanted to help, some way. An' this is REAL poetry--truly it
is!--not the immaculate kind that I jest dash off! I've worked an'
worked over this, an' I'm jest sure it'll sell, It's GOT to sell, Mr.
Burton. We've jest got to have that money. An' now, I--I want to read
'em to you. Can't I, please?"

And this from Susan--this palpitating, pleading "please"! Daniel
Burton, with a helpless gesture that expressed embarrassment, dismay,
bewilderment, and resignation, threw up both hands and settled back in
his chair.

"Why, of--of course, Susan, read them," he muttered as clearly as he
could, considering the tightness that had come into his throat.

And Susan read this:

SPRING

Oh, gentle Spring, I love thy rills,
I love thy wooden, rocky rills,
I love thy budsome beauty.
But, oh, I hate o'er anything,
Thy mud an' slush, oh, gentle Spring,
When rubbers are a duty.