Main  Contacts  
Table of contents
Coming Home
Old Friends with New Faces
Miss Campbell
Thorns Among the Roses
Prince Charming
Polishing Mac
Breakers Ahead
New Year's Calls
The Sad and Sober Part
Small Temptations
At Kitty's Ball
Both Sides
Aunt Clara's Plan
Alas for Charlie!
Good Works
Among the Haycocks
Which Was It?
Behind the Fountain
What Mac Did
How Phebe Earned Her Welcome
Short and Sweet

pocket, "I beg pardon, but it was full of rubbish. Oh, yes! I'm fond 

of Keats. Don't you know him?" 


"I used to read him a good deal, but Uncle found me crying over 

the 'Pot of Basil' and advised me to read less poetry for a while or I 

should get too sentimental," answered Rose, turning the pages 

without seeing them, for a new idea had just popped into her head. 


"'The Eve of St. Agnes' is the most perfect love story in the world, 

I think," said Mac, enthusiastically. 


"Read it to me. I feel just like hearing poetry, and you will do it 

justice if you are fond of it," said Rose, handing him the book with 

an innocent air. 


"Nothing I'd like better, but it is rather long." 


"I'll tell you to stop if I get tired. Baby won't interrupt; she will be 

contented for an hour with those pretty things." 


As if well pleased with his task, Mac laid himself comfortably on 

the grass and, leaning his head on his hand, read the lovely story as 

only one could who entered fully into the spirit of it. Rose watched 

him closely and saw how his face brightened over some quaint 

fancy, delicate description, or delicious word; heard how smoothly 

the melodious measures fell from his lips, and read something 

more than admiration in his eyes as he looked up now and then to 

mark if she enjoyed it as much as he. 


She could not help enjoying it, for the poet's pen painted as well as 

wrote, and the little romance lived before her, but she was not 

thinking of John Keats as she listened; she was wondering if this 

cousin was a kindred spirit, born to make such music and leave as 

sweet an echo behind him. It seemed as if it might be; and, after 

going through the rough caterpillar and the pent-up chrysalis 

changes, the beautiful butterfly would appear to astonish and 

delight them all. So full of this fancy was she that she never 

thanked him when the story ended but, leaning forward, asked in a 

tone that made him start and look as if he had fallen from the 

clouds: "Mac, do you ever write poetry?" 




"What do you call the song Phebe sang with her bird chorus?" 


"That was nothing till she put the music to it. But she promised not 

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