Hall.

"'Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise.'"

"That ought to do," she said, abruptly swinging around on the piano
stool to face them.

"The rhythm is good and I love the tune."

Polly and Angela considered for a moment.

"It is rather nice," Polly agreed, "if we can only find words to fit
it."

"That's easy, use the same idea as the song," Betty suggested.
"Supplement Hudson for Afton, and--"

"Oh, Bet, how can you?" Angela's poetic taste objected. "Imagine a
school song that began 'Flow gently sweet Hudson.' I suppose you'd go
on with: 'Among thy sign bordered banks.' It would never do, would it,
Polly?"

Polly was laughing too hard to reply at once.

"I don't know; it would be original, anyway, Ange," she said at last.

"And you know our class has always been original," Betty reminded her.

"There's a difference between originality and silly nonsense, but I
suppose it's too much to expect either of you to appreciate it," Angela
said, with dignity.

Betty played a loud chord on the piano.

"Ange, when you're crushing, I always feel like running away," she said,
timidly. "However, I still protest that there's nothing wrong with
telling the Hudson to flow gently," she added. "Of course, I'm open to
argument."

Angela was exasperated. The rest of the Senior class had appointed these
three to write the class song, over a week ago. It had to be ready
before the Senior concert. This was as far as they had gotten.

Christmas vacation began the next week, and the concert was to be the
night before. Angela felt, that given a piece of paper, a pencil and a
quiet place, she could compose a fitting song, but with Betty and Polly
saying ridiculous things every minute to make her laugh, she couldn't
think of even one sensible line.

"You can't use the words, gently and sweet, in relation to a mighty
river like the Hudson." She referred to Betty's question. "You might as
well call it a cute little brook," she finished in disgust.

"Why, Angela! I do believe you're cross." Polly looked up in sudden
surprise at the irritable note in Angela's voice. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing but a cold in my head and pages of Virgil translations," Angela
replied, woefully. "You and Betty won't be serious for a minute. It'll
mean I have to sit up the night before the concert with a wet towel
around my head and write a song that won't be any good."

"Polly, we ought to be ashamed. Angela's right," Betty said wi