fill up the lines. One Sunday in church I read lots of hymns,--
Aunt Jane wasn't there, you know,--and then I went to work."

"Are you going to have it printed?" asked Molly.

"Not yet," said Polly. "I thought at first I would send it to the
_News_, but I've a better plan. I'm going to copy it all out,
and write my name on it and my age and how I came to write it, and
put it away. After I'm dead and famous, somebody will find it, and
it will be printed. Then people will make a fuss over it and call
me a child prodigy and all sorts of nice things."

"But what's the use?" queried Molly. "When you're all nicely dead
and buried, it can't do you any good."

"But just think how proud my children and grandchildren will be!"
exclaimed Polly enthusiastically.

"Maybe you won't have any," suggested Molly sceptically. "People
that write are generally old maids, unless they are men."

Polly's face fell. Here was a flaw in her plans.

"Well, go on," said Molly. "Aren't you going to read it?"

Polly looked at the paper in her hand, cleared her throat
nervously, drew a long breath, and cleared her throat again.

"What's the matter?" asked Molly unsympathetically. She had never
written a poem, and had no idea of the mingled fear and pride that