.
T. Barnum, Buried Cities; I can't remember any more now. They were all
bad, and I can't bear to show them; I can write poetry easier and
better, Miss Maxwell."

"Poetry!" she exclaimed. "Did Miss Dearborn require you to do it?"

"Oh, no; I always did it even at the farm. Shall I bring all I have? It
isn't much."

Rebecca took the blank-book in which she kept copies of her effusions
and left it at Miss Maxwell's door, hoping that she might be asked in
and thus obtain a private interview; but a servant answered her ring,
and she could only walk away, disappointed.

A few days afterward she saw the black-covered book on Miss Maxwell's
desk and knew that the dreaded moment of criticism had come, so she was
not surprised to be asked to remain after class.

The room was quiet; the red leaves rustled in the breeze and flew in at
the open window, bearing the first compliments of the season. Miss
Maxwell came and sat by Rebecca's side on the bench.

"Did you think these were good?" she asked, giving her the verses.

"Not so very," confessed Rebecca; "but it's hard to tell all by
yourself. The Perkinses and the Cobbs always said they were wonderful,
but when Mrs. Cobb told me she thought they were better than Mr.
Longfellow's I was worried, because I knew that couldn't be true."

This ingenuous remark confirmed Miss Maxwell's opinion of Rebecca as a
girl who could hear the truth and profit by it.

"Well, my child," she said smilingly, "your friends were wrong and you
were right; judged by the proper tests, they are pretty bad."

"Then I must give up all hope of ever being a writer!" sighed Rebecca,
who was tasting the bitterness of hemlock and wondering if she could
keep the tears back until the interview was over.

"Don't go so fast," interrupted Miss Maxwell. "Though they don't amount
to anything as poetry, they show a good deal of promise in certain
directions. You almost never make a mistake in rhyme or metre, and this
shows you have a natural sense of what is right; a 'sense of form,'
poets would call it. When you grow older, have a little more
experience,--in fact, when you have something to say, I think you may
write very good verses. Poetry needs knowledge and vision, experience
and imagination, Rebecca. You have not the first three yet, but I
rather think you have a touch of the last."

"Must I never try any more poetry, not even to amuse myself?"

"Certainly you may; it will only help you to write bette