Mrs. Cobb exchanged dumb glances of admiration; indeed uncle
Jerry was obliged to turn his face to the window and wipe his eyes
furtively with the string-bag.

"How in the world did you do it?" Mrs. Cobb exclaimed.

"Oh, it's easy," answered Rebecca; "the hymns at meeting are all like
that. You see there's a school newspaper printed at Wareham Academy
once a month. Dick Carter says the editor is always a boy, of course;
but he allows girls to try and write for it, and then chooses the best.
Dick thinks I can be in it."

"IN it!" exclaimed uncle Jerry. "I shouldn't be a bit surprised if you
had to write the whole paper; an' as for any boy editor, you could lick
him writin', I bate ye, with one hand tied behind ye."

"Can we have a copy of the poetry to keep in the family Bible?"
inquired Mrs. Cobb respectfully.

"Oh! would you like it?" asked Rebecca. "Yes indeed! I'll do a clean,
nice one with violet ink and a fine pen. But I must go and look at my
poor dress."

The old couple followed Rebecca into the kitchen. The frock was quite
dry, and in truth it had been helped a little by aunt Sarah's
ministrations; but the colors had run in the rubbing, the pattern was
blurred, and there were muddy streaks here and there. As a last resort,
it was carefully smoothed with a warm iron, and Rebecca was urged to
attire herself, that they might see if the spots showed as much when it
was on.

They did, most uncompromisingly, and to the dullest eye. Rebecca gave
one searching look, and then said, as she took her hat from a nail in
the entry, "I think I'll be going. Good-night! If I've got to have a
scolding, I want it quick, and get it over."

"Poor little onlucky misfortunate thing!" sighed uncle Jerry, as his
eyes followed her down the hill. "I wish she could pay some attention
to the ground under her feet; but I vow, if she was ourn I'd let her
slop paint all over the house before I could scold her. Here's her
poetry she's left behind. Read it out ag'in, mother. Land!" he
continued, chuckling, as he lighted his cob pipe; "I can just see the
last flap o' that boy-editor's shirt tail as he legs it for the woods,
while Rebecky settles down in his revolvin' cheer! I'm puzzled as to
what kind of a job editin' is, exactly; but she'll find out, Rebecky
will. An' she'll just edit for all she's worth!

"'The thought that God has planned it so
Should help us bear the years.'

Land, mother! that takes right holt, kind o'