mittened hand into her coat pocket, and pulled out a dingy sheet
of paper whose folds, worn till they were transparent, showed the
marks of long service. With trembling hands, she smoothed it out,
tearing it a little, in her excitement. Then she turned to Molly.

"Now, Molly Hapgood," she said solemnly; "will you promise never
to tell, if I tell you something that there doesn't anybody else
know, that I've never even shown to mamma?"

"Go on, Polly!" urged her friend impatiently, trying to steal a
glance at the worn-out sheet, which was covered with Polly's
irregular, childish writing. But Polly edged cautiously away.

"Now remember," she said again; "you're the only single soul in
the world that knows this, Molly; and I am telling you my secret
because I know you love me. I've--" there was a catch in her
breath--"I've written a poem!"

"Really!" And Molly's eyes grew round with astonishment and
respectful awe.

"Yes," Polly went on more calmly, now the great secret was out; "I
knew I could, and it was just as easy as could be."

"How did you ever know how?" inquired Molly, with a vague idea
that she had never before appreciated this gifted friend.

"I didn't know how, at first," answered Polly, kindly exposing her
methods of work to her friend's gaze. "I just knew that there
ought to be some rhymes, and then I must say something or other to