|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 51
Jemima now remembers well
They once had company,
Preserves and buns and toothsome tarts
When ne'er a taste had she.
For, supperless, to bed that night,
She went, severely chid;
No more the neighbours to invite,
Save at her mother's bid.
"Bravo! little girl," cried Mrs. Sherman, while the girls clapped
loudly. "Have you anything else with you that you have written? If you
have, bring it down with you when you come."
"Yes, godmother," answered Betty, over the banister, blushing until she
could feel her cheeks burn. She was all a-tingle at the thought of her
godmother seeing her verses. She wanted her to see them, and yet,--she
_couldn't_ take down her old ledger for them all to read and criticise.
Not for worlds would she have Eugenia read her verses on "Friendship,"
and there was one about "Dead Hopes" that she felt none of them would
understand. They might even laugh at it.
Several minutes went by before she could make up her mind. When she went
down-stairs she had put the old ledger back into her trunk and carried
only one of the loose leaves in her hands.
"I'll show the others to godmother sometime when we are alone," she said
to herself, as she went shyly up to the group waiting for her, "Here is
one I called 'Night,'" she said, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment.
"There are four verses."
Mrs. Sherman took it, and, glancing down the lines, read aloud the
little poem, commencing:
"Oh, peaceful Night, thou shadowy Queen
Who rules the realms of shade,
Thy throne is on the heaven's arch,
Thy crown of stars is made."
"Oh, Betty, that's splendid!" cried the girls, in chorus. "How could you
think of it?"
"It is remarkably good for a little girl of twelve," said Mrs. Sherman,
glancing over the last verses again. "But I am not surprised. Your
mother wrote some beautiful things. She scribbled verses all the time."
"Oh, I didn't know that!" cried Betty. "How I wish I could see some of
them!"
"You shall, my dear! I have an old portfolio in the library, full of
such things. Poems that she wrote and pictures that Joyce's mother drew;
caricatures of the professors, the little pen and ink sketches of the
places in the Valley we loved the best. I'll get them out for you, after
dinner. You will all be interested in them, especially in a journal they
kept for me one summer when I was at the seashore. One kept a record of
all that happened in the Valley during my absence, and the other
illustrated it."
"Dinner is ready now," said Lloyd, jumping up as the maid opened the
dining-room door. As they all rose to go in, Mrs. Sherman lingered a
moment in the hall, to take the paper from Betty's hand.
"Will you give me this little poem, dear?" she asked, slipping an arm
around the child's waist. "I am very proud of my little god-daughter.
The world will hear from you some day, if you keep on singing. Just do
your bravest and best, and it will be glad to listen to your music."
She stooped and kissed Betty lightly on the forehead. It was as if she
had set the seal of her approval upon her, and to be approved by her
beautiful godmother,--ah, that meant more to the devoted little heart
than any one could dream; far more, even, than if she had been made the
proud laureate of a queen.
CHAPTER XII.
A PILLOW-CASE PARTY.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|