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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

to tell." 


"She didn't. I suspected, and now I know," laughed Rose, delighted 

to have caught him. 


Much discomfited, Mac gave poor Keats a fling and, leaning on 

both elbows, tried to hide his face for it had reddened like that of a 

modest girl when teased about her lover. 


"You needn't look so guilty; it is no sin to write poetry," said Rose, 

amused at his confession. 


"It's a sin to call that rubbish poetry," muttered Mac with great 



"It is a greater sin to tell a fib and say you never write it." 


"Reading so much sets one thinking about such things, and every 

fellow scribbles a little jingle when he is lazy or in love, you 

know," explained Mac, looking very guilty. 


Rose could not quite understand the change she saw in him till his 

last words suggested a cause which she knew by experience was 

apt to inspire young men. Leaning forward again, she asked 

solemnly, though her eyes danced with fun, "Mac, are you in 



"Do I look like it?" And he sat up with such an injured and 

indignant face that she apologized at once, for he certainly did not 

look loverlike with hayseed in his hair, several lively crickets 

playing leapfrog over his back, and a pair of long legs stretching 

from tree to haycock. 


"No, you don't, and I humbly beg your pardon for making such an 

unwarrantable insinuation. It merely occurred to me that the 

general upliftedness I observe in you might be owing to that, since 

it wasn't poetry." 


"It is the good company I've been keeping, if anything. A fellow 

can't spend 'A Week' with Thoreau and not be the better for it. I'm 

glad I show it, because in the scramble life is to most of us, even 

an hour with such a sane, simple, and sagacious soul as his must 

help one," said Mac, taking a much worn book out of his pocket 

with the air of introducing a dear and honored friend. 


"I've read bits, and like them they are so original and fresh and 

sometimes droll," said Rose, smiling to see what natural and 

appropriate marks of approbation the elements seemed to set upon 

the pages Mac was turning eagerly, for one had evidently been 

rained on, a crushed berry stained another, some appreciative 

field-mouse or squirrel had nibbled one corner, and the cover was 

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