first attempt.

Tom came into the room to learn his lessons at the other side of the
table.

"Tom," she said, "please don't say your verbs out loud. I can't write
poetry when you do. Tell me a rhyme for begonia. 'Here is laid my pink
begonia.'"

"'Toss it over the wall, or let it alone-will-you?' That is the only
rhyme in the English language," said Tom.

"You are very unkind," said Ethel, leaning her cheek on an inky hand,
and rubbing her hair till it was a wild black mane. Then she tried what
would happen if she began in quite a different way. At last she read out
in sad tones:--

"Here my poor begonia lies,
Drop a tear and wipe your eyes."

To which Tom only answered in a jaunty tone, throwing his penknife out
of his pocket.

"Here's my knife to bury your roots,
Lock the greenhouse, and wipe your boots."

Ethel's mouth gave a little twitch; but she would not laugh when Tom
made fun of her poetry.

She went into the greenhouse, carrying a piece of black stuff and a pair
of scissors, the penknife, and her verses printed in violet.

Then she dug a hole in the earthen floor, under the greenhouse shelf, in
a warm corner near the pipes. Next she dug her begonia root out of the
pot, popped it into the hole, and covered it up, and left a bit of stick
standing upright, holding in a notch the wonderful epitaph.

Tom found her there, drying and smearing her face with an earthy corner
of her pinafore. Tom had Kafoozalum peeping out from under his
jacket-front; but Ethel sobbed afresh at the sight of the red bow with
the kitten behind it.

"Come and take care of my geraniums with me, Ethel," said Tom.

"Oh! boo-hoo-no-no! You are very unkind."

"Why, what have I done? _I_ didn't roll on my head in the begonia pot,
did I, pussy?"

"Oh! boo-hoo--go 'way!"

So Tom went away. But the next time Ethel went into the greenhouse with
a bright face, she could not help laughing at Tom's addition to her
verses. She read:--

"Here my poor begonia lies,
Drop a tear and wipe your eyes--
The door was open--if you had locked it,
The bow with the kitten couldn't have knocked it."

The winter passed; and Ethel's birthday came in the spring.

"Here is a silver pencil for you to write poetry with," said Tom,
mischievously. Poetry or not the silver pencil was worth having, and
Ethel felt that teasing Tom was fond of her. Ah! what could she do
without Tom, or without the teasing either? "Come into the greenh