, and she stepped along in time to the rhythm.
It was a fine rhythm. And, as soon as she was relieved from duty, she
rushed back to the temporary shrine of the Muse. The words, now, flowed
much more easily than at the beginning--one of the first lessons learned
by all creative artists.

Gay banners from turrets streamed out in the air And all Maple, Avenue
turned out for the pair. Ah! beauteous was she, that white-satin young
bride, But sorrow had reddened her deep purple eyes. Each clatter of
hoofs from the courtyard below Did summon the blood swift to ebb and
then flow; For the gem on her finger, the flower in her hair, Bound not
her sad heart to that Cleveland man there.

Ah! who is this riding so fast through Main Street? The gallant young
lover--

Again, reiterant and increasingly imperative, summons from the house
slashed across her mood. Can't one's family ever appreciate the
yearning for solitude? However, even amid the talkative circle round the
supper-table, Missy felt uplifted and strangely remote.

"Why aren't you eating your supper, Missy? Just look at that wasted good
meat!"

"Meat," though a good rhyme for "street," would not work well.
"Neat"--"fleet"--Ah! "Fleet!"

Immediately after supper, followed by the inquisitive Poppylinda, Missy
took her poem out to the comparative solitude of the back porch steps.
It was very sweet and still out there, the sun sinking blood-red over
the cherry trees. With no difficulty at all, she went on, inspired:

--Main Street?

The gallant young Doctor in his motor so fleet! So flashing his eye and
so stately his form That the bride's sinking heart with delight did grow
warm. But the poor craven bridegroom said never a word; And the parent
so proud did champ in her woe.

The knight snatched her swiftly into the Ford, And she smiled as he
steered adown the Boulevard; Then away they did race until soon lost to
view, And all knew 'twas best for these lovers so true. For where, tell
me where, would have gone that bride's bliss? Who flouts at true love
all true happiness must miss!

What matters the vain things of Earth, soon or late, If the heart of a
loved one in anguish doth break?

When she came to the triumphant close, among the fragrant cherry blooms
the birds were twittering their lullabies. She went in to say her own
good night, the Poem, much erased and interlined, tucked in the front of
her blouse together with ineffable sensations. But she was not,