it's--if it has anything to do with
what we were talking about when Peggy came in, you may as well tell. I
want Peggy to know about it, and I'm sure she would like to hear them
too."

"Hear them? What in the world is it? Oh, I know! I know!" cried Peggy:
"you have been writing and sending things to the magazines! Oh, Milly,
_do_ show me!"

Millicent looked at her long and doubtfully. "Will you never, never
tell?" she asked at last.

"Never, on my oath!"

"I believe I will tell you, then, for I do think it is the meanest thing
in those editors, and I just want to see what they have said this time,
whether they have answered my note."

She opened the envelope and drew forth several papers, one of which
appeared to be a printed one.

"No, they haven't. They have just sent the same old slip they always do,
thanking me ever so much for sending the poems, and it may not be
because they are not good that they send them back, but because they
have so many things on hand. Oh dear, I think they might have answered
it!"

"What did you say in your note?" asked Peggy.

"Oh, I told them that I thought these poems were perfectly suited to
their magazine, and so they are. And I asked them to tell me of a good
place to send them if they couldn't take them. I do think the man might
have had the politeness to answer my note."

"Well, do let us hear them," put in Peggy, briskly. "I am wild to know
what they are like."

Millicent again looked at her doubtfully. But in a moment she took a
more upright position on the sofa, and holding her pretty head a little
to one side, she remarked:

"This is a little poem on something which is very familiar to us, but I
like the idea of idealizing familiar things." Then she paused. "Oh, I
don't believe I can read it, after all," she said, in an embarrassed
way; "it is very hard to read your own productions."

"Then let me read it," cried Peggy, attempting to seize the paper.

"No, no! I would rather do it myself than have you," said Millicent, and
presently she coughed hesitatingly and began. "It is about the mosquito,
and is called

"LINES TO A MOSQUITO.

"When day is done, and darkness comes shadowing down the way,
And Night with her rustling winglets blots out the garish day,
We hear the song of an insect, singing its musical lay.

"Oh, insect with wings that flutter! Oh, insect on murder intent,
Oh, creature, we'd love thee dearly if thou wert not on bloodshed