look at the hair of her, an' the smile, an' that there dimple! Look at Alice Robinson, that 's called the prettiest child on the river, an' see how Rebecca shines her ri' down out o' sight! I hope Mirandy 'll favor her comin' over to see us real often, for she 'll let off some of her steam here, an' the brick house 'll be consid'able safer for everybody concerned. We 've known what it was to hev children, even if 't was more 'n thirty years ago, an' we can make allowances."
Notwithstanding the encomiums of Mr. and Mrs. Cobb, Rebecca made a poor hand at composition writing at this time. Miss Dearborn gave her every sort of subject that she had ever been given herself: Cloud Pictures; Abraham Lincoln; Nature; Philanthropy; Slavery; Intemperance; Joy and Duty; Solitude; but with none of them did Rebecca seem to grapple satisfactorily.
"Write as you talk, Rebecca," insisted poor Miss Dearborn, who secretly knew that she could never manage a good composition herself.
"But gracious me, Miss Dearborn! I don't talk about nature and slavery. I can't write unless I have something to say, can I?"
"That is what compositions are for," returned Miss Dearborn doubtfully; "to make you have things to say. Now in your last one, on solitude, you have n't said anything very interesting, and you 've made it too common and every-day to sound well.
