'T was in the state of Maine.
Rebecca was the darker one,
The fairer, Emma Jane.
The fairer maiden said, "I would
My life were as the stream;
So peaceful, and so smooth and still,
So pleasant and serene."

"I'd rather be a little drop
In the great rushing fall;
I'd never choose the quiet lake;
'T would not please me at all."
(It was the darker maiden spoke
The words we just have stated;
The maidens twain were simply friends,
Not sisters, or related.)

But O! alas! we may not have
The things we hope to gain.
The quiet life may come to me,
The rush to Emma Jane!

She read it aloud, and the Cobbs thought it not only surpassingly
beautiful, but a marvelous production.

"I guess if that writer that lived on Congress Street in Portland could
'a' heard your poetry he'd 'a' been astonished," said Mrs. Cobb. "If
you ask me, I say this piece is as good as that one o' his, 'Tell me
not in mournful numbers;' and consid'able clearer."

"I never could fairly make out what 'mournful numbers' was," remarked
Mr. Cobb critically.

"Then I guess you never studied fractions!" flashed Rebecca. "See here,
uncle Jerry and aunt Sarah, would you write another verse, especially
for a last one, as they usually do--one with 'thoughts' in it--to make
a better ending?"

"If you can grind 'em out jest by turnin' the crank, why I should say
the more the merrier; but I don't hardly see how you could have a
better endin'," observed Mr. Cobb.

"It is horrid!" grumbled Rebecca. "I ought not to have put that 'me'
in. I'm writing the poetry. Nobody ought to know it IS me standing by
the river; it ought to be 'Rebecca,' or 'the darker maiden;' and 'the
rush to Emma Jane' is simply dreadful. Sometimes I think I never will
try poetry, it's so hard to make it come right; and other times it just
says itself. I wonder if this would be better?

But O! alas! we may not gain
The good for which we pray
The quiet life may come to one
Who likes it rather gay,

I don't know whether that is worse or not. Now for a new last verse!"

In a few minutes the poetess looked up, flushed and triumphant. "It was
as easy as nothing. Just hear!" And she read slowly, with her pretty,
pathetic voice:--

Then if our lot be bright or sad,
Be full of smiles, or tears,
The thought that God has planned it so
Should help us bear the years.

Mr. and