t vister," he acknowledged. "I don't know as I can think of
a word that will rhyme with it, though."

"There is such a thing as blank verse, Mr. Crow," said Miss Becker,
smiling in a most superior way.

Mr. Crow was thinking. "Blister wouldn't be bad," he announced.
"Something about the vister causin' a blister. I don't know as you are
aware of the fact, Sue, but I wrote consider'ble poetry when I was a
young feller. Mrs. Crow's got 'em all tied up in a pink ribbon. It's a
mighty funny thing that she won't even show 'em to anybody."

"Oh, but they are sacred," said Miss Becker feelingly, as she looked
over the rims of her spectacles at a spot in the sky some forty-five
degrees above the steeple of the Congregational Church down the street.

"I don't know as I meant 'em to be sacred at the time," said he; "but
there wasn't anything in 'em that was unfittin' for a young lady to
read."

"You don't understand. What could be more sacred than the outpourings
of love? What more--"

"'Course it was a good many years ago," Mr. Crow was quick to explain.

"Love's young dream," chided Miss Becker coyly.

Mr. Crow twisted his sparse grey beard with unusual tenderness. "Beats
all, don't it, Sue, what a poet'll do when he's tryin' to raise a
moustache?"

"I am sure I don't know," said Miss Becker stiffly.

"Speakin' about sunsets," said he hastily, after a quick glance at her
shaded upper lip, "how's your pa? I heard he had a sinkin' spell
yestiday."

"He's better." A moment later, with fine scorn: "His sun hasn't set yet,
Mr. Crow."

"Beats all how he hangs on, don't it? Eighty-seven last birthday, an'
spry as a man o' fifty up to--" He broke off to devote his attention to
a couple of strangers farther down the tree-lined street: two men who
approached slowly on the plank sidewalk, pausing every now and then to
peer inquiringly at the front doors of houses along the way.

Miss Sue Becker, whose back was toward the strangers, allowed her poetic
mind to resume its interest in the sunset.

"Golden cloudlets float upon a coral--What did you say, Mr. Crow?"

"Ever see 'em before, Sue?"

"Hundreds of times. They remind me of the daintiest, fleeciest puffs
of--"

"I'm talkin' about those men comin' up the street," said the old town
marshal sharply.

Miss Becker abandoned the transient sunset for something more durable.
Forty-odd summers had passed over her head.

For one professedly indifferent to the opposite sex,