, she accepted her fate, and marched home to air her outraged sense
of justice before the little parsonage family, sure of sympathy and help
in that quarter. Nor was she disappointed.

Elizabeth recognized the small maid's failings as a student, and was
much provoked at Miss Peyton's want of understanding, but very wisely
kept these sentiments to herself, and set about to help Peace in her
difficult task. At her suggestion, the young elocutionist waited until
the following morning before beginning her study of the new lines, and
with the teacher's copied words in her hand, went out to the hammock
under the trees to be alone with her work. There she sat swinging
violently to and fro, gabbling the stanzas line by line, while she
ferociously jerked the short curls on her forehead and frowned so
fiercely that Elizabeth, busy with her Saturday baking, could not resist
smiling whenever she chanced to pass the door, through which she could
see the familiar figure.

Slower and slower the red lips moved, lower and lower the hammock swung,
and finally with a gesture of utter despair, Peace cast the paper from
her, and dropped her head dejectedly into her hands.

"Poor youngster," murmured the flushed cook from the window where she
sat picking over berries. "John, have you a minute to spare? Peace is in
trouble--Oh, nothing but that new poem, but I thought perhaps you might
invent some easy way for her to memorize it. You were always good at
such things, and I can't stop until my cake is out of the oven and the
pies are made."

He assented promptly, and strolling out of the door as if for a breath
of fresh air, wandered across the grass to the motionless figure in the
hammock. "What seems to be the matter, chick?" he inquired cheerfully,
rescuing the discarded paper from the dirt and handing it back to its
owner.

"Oh, Saint John, this is a perfectly _dreadful_ poem! I don't b'lieve
Longfellow ever wrote it, and even if he did, I know I can _never_ learn
it. The verses haven't _any_ sense at _all_. Just listen to this!" She
seized the sheet with an angry little flirt, and read to the amazed man:

"'Ye open the eastern windows,
That look toward the sun,
Where shots are stinging swallows
And the brooks in mourning run.

"'What the leaves are to the forest,
Where light and air are stewed,
Ere their feet and slender juices
Have been buttoned into food,--

"'That to the world are