This time, Polly found her friend looking at her, with a scornful
curl to her lips.

"I thought you said it was a poem," she said, with cutting
emphasis; "but it sounds just exactly like a bill of fare."

This was too much for Polly. Her temper flashed up like a fire
among dead twigs.

"Molly Hapgood, you're as mean as mean can be, to make fun of me!
I've a good mind never to speak to you again as long as I live."

As usual, the more Polly became excited, the more Molly grew cool
and collected.

"Don't be a goose, Polly," she said provokingly. "You're no more
able to write a poem than Job is."

"What do you mean?" demanded Polly, facing her friend with
gleaming eyes and frowning brow.

"What do I mean!" echoed Molly mercilessly, "I mean just this:
your old poem isn't any poem at all. It doesn't rhyme more than
half way, and there's no more poetry about it than there is about
one of your freckles. Poetry is all about spring and clouds and
butterflies, or else death or--" Molly paused for an idea. Not
finding it, she hastily concluded, "Besides, I've heard something
just like that before."