McGuire, who was still leaning on the division fence.

"'If only I could see enough ter help the boys!' he moaned over an'
over again. It made me feel awful bad. I was that upset I jest
couldn't sleep that night, an' I had ter get up an' write. But it made
a real pretty poem. My fuse always works better in the night, anyhow.
'The wail of the toys'--that's what I called it--had the toys tell the
story, ye know, all the kites an' jack-knives an' balls an' bats that
he's fixed for the boys all these years, an' how bad they felt because
he couldn't do it any more. Like this, ye know:

'Oh, woe is me, said the baseball bat,
Oh, woe is me, said the kite.'

'T was real pretty, if I do say it, an' touchy, too."

"For mercy's sake, Susan Betts, if you ain't the greatest!" ejaculated
Mrs. McGuire, with disapproving admiration. "If you was dyin' I
believe you'd stop to write a poem for yer gravestone!"

Susan Betts chuckled wickedly, but her voice was gravity itself.

"Oh, I wouldn't have ter do that, Mis' McGuire. I've got that done
already."

"Susan Betts, you haven't!" gasped the scandalized woman on the other
side of the fence.

"Haven't I? Listen," challenged Susan Betts, striking an attitude. Her
face was abnormally grave, though her eyes were merry.