Well! I have printed the poem on a card, and on the other side
Margery has drawn the picture of a cross old maid, surrounded by
seven cats, all frying to get a drink out of her tea-cup. Then Geoff
is going to get a live cat from the milk ranch near here, and box it
up for me to give to her when she receives her presents at the
dinner-table. Won't it be fun?
OWED TO POLLY
BECAUSE OF HER BIRTHDAY.
She camps among the untrodden ways
Forninst the 'Mountain Mill';
A maid whom there are few to praise
And few to wish her ill.
She lives unknown, and few could know
What Pauline is to me;
As dear a joy as are to her
Her frequent cups of tea.
A birthday this dear creature had,
Full many a year ago;
She says she is but just fifteen,
Of course she ought to know.
But still this gift I bring to her,
Appropriate to her age,
Regardless of her stifled scorn,
Or well conceal-ed rage!
She smiles upon these tender lines,
As you all plainly see,
But when she meets me all alone,
How different it will be!
Now comes Geoff's, to be given with a pretty little inkstand:-
There was a young maiden whose thought
Was so airy it couldn't be caught;
So what do you think?
We gave her some ink,
And captured her light-winged thought.
Here is Jack's last on Polly:-
There's a pert little poppet called Polly,
Who frequently falls into folly!
She's a terrible tongue
For a 'creetur' so young,
But if she were dumb she'd be jolly!
I helped Polly with a reply, and we delivered it five minutes later:-
I'd rather be deaf, Master Jack,
For if only one sense I must lack,
To be rid of your voice
I should always rejoice,
Nor mourn if it never came back!
And now good-night and good-bye until I am allowed to write you my
own particular kind of letter.
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