But, instead of applauding, Fritz only laughed vociferously.
Amy naturally looked indignant. “I must say that I can’t see anything to laugh at.”
“Why, no, it’s very sad. That’s one reason I’m laughing; it just struck me as odd that they should die off so; and how did the rose get into her hand when she was dead. You have n’t explained that.”
“Oh, you are n’t a bit poetical,” and Amy read the last stanza aloud again.
“Is n’t the metre just a little lively for such a sad subject?” On account of the drill that he had had in Latin and Greek, Fritz knew something about metres, even though he had n’t the widest appreciation of English poetry. Amy seemed disturbed by this suggestion, and, going over the lines again, she decided that Fritz was partly right, and that some time in the future she would cast the poem into some other form.
“In spite of your laughing at me, Fritz, I can see it’s a good thing to have some one to criticise me, and after this I ’ll show you some of the pieces that I write. But you must promise not to speak to another soul about them.”
“Why, does n’t your mother know that you write?”
“Oh, yes, of course. But she does n’t care to have me spend so much time over poetry. She says that it’s better to read good things now, and write when I’m older. But some way I can’t help writing whenever I have the chance.”
In the two years that had passed since Fritz had first learned of her poetic proclivities, Amy had had no reason
