"I guess if that writer that lived on Congress Street in Portland could 'a' heard your poetry he'd 'a' been astonished," said Mrs. Cobb. "If you ask me, I say this piece is as good as that one o' his, 'Tell me not in mournful numbers;' and consid'able clearer."
"I never could fairly make out what 'mournful numbers' was," remarked Mr. Cobb critically.
"Then I guess you never studied fractions!" flashed Rebecca. "See here, uncle Jerry and aunt Sarah, would you write another verse, especially for a last one, as they usually do—one with 'thoughts' in it—to make a better ending?"
"If you can grind 'em out jest by turnin' the crank, why I should say the more the merrier; but I don't hardly see how you could have a better endin'," observed Mr. Cobb.
"It is horrid!" grumbled Rebecca. "I ought not to have put that 'me' in. I 'm writing the poetry. Nobody ought to know it is me standing by the river; it ought to be 'Rebecca,' or 'the darker maiden;' and 'the rush to Emma Jane' is simply dreadful. Sometimes I think I never will try poetry, it 's so hard to make it come right; and other times it just says itself. I wonder if this would be better?
But O! alas! we may not gain
The good for which we pray.
The quiet life may come to one
Who likes it rather gay.
