rs and thy trees that grow everywhere,
The birds on the bows are singing so gay,
Oh how I love them on a bright summer's day!_

"P.S.--This pome is original--that is, made up by the author.

"Lizzie Gordon."

Rosie had finished long ago and had carefully inscribed at the
conclusion of her essay:

"Rosamond Ellen Carrick,
Forest Glen,
Ontario,
Canada,
North America,
Western Hemisphere."

All of which helped to lengthen out her too brief contribution. She
was now ready to assist her friend in her last hasty scramble.
Elizabeth had no blotting-paper--she never had. Rosie provided a piece
and the composition was ready at last. Elizabeth sighed over it.
There were so many clever things she might have put in had she only had
time. There was "viz.," for instance, instead of "that is," in the
last sentence. "Viz." sounded so learned.

When the afternoon recess came, Miss Hillary called Elizabeth to her.
She had an essay before her, and she was looking puzzled, and not
nearly so stern.

"Elizabeth," she said gently, "what were you writing on your slate this
morning when I was speaking?"

Elizabeth's head drooped. In a shamed whisper she confessed that Miss
Hillary's wonderful vocabulary had tempted her. She dared not look up
and did not see that her teacher's pretty mouth twitched.

"Well," she said in a very pleasant tone, "you did not behave so badly
after all. But remember, you must always sit still and listen when I
am talking."

Elizabeth's head came up. Her face was radiant, her gray eyes shone
starlike.

"Oh, Miss Hillary!" she gasped, overcome with gratitude at this giving
back of her self-respect. Miss Hillary picked up the next essay, and
the little girl turned way. But she could not leave without one word
of hope.

"Oh, Miss Hillary," she whispered again, "do you think you could let me
pass? If you'll only not put me in Mary's class, I'll, I'll--I believe
I could learn to spell!" she finally added, as the most extravagant
promise she could possibly make.

Miss Hillary smiled again. She looked kindly at the small, anxious
figure, the pleading face with its big eyes, the slim, brown hands
twisting nervously the long, heavy braid of brown hair with the golden
strand through it.

"Well, I shall do my best," she said. "You can certainly write, even
if you can't do arithmetic. Now run away and play."

And, wild with hope and joy, E