van der Gracht with awe. It was from Juffrouw Laps he learned that
he could write poetry; and it was an illumination for him.

Juffrouw Laps had an uncle whose birthday was coming the next week. She
had paid the Pieterses a swell visit to ask if Walter wouldn't write
her a poem for the occasion. She would see that he got some bonbons.

"But Juffrouw Pieterse, you must tell him that it must be religious
and that my uncle is a widower. He must bring that in. I should like
for it to be in the melody of the 103d psalm, for my uncle has that
psalm in his lyre."

The reader will note that she did not mean the lyre of Apollo. What
she spoke of was a thing that turned, and made a screechy noise.

Juffrouw Pieterse was going to speak with Walter about it when he came
from school, but first she had to consider the matter with Stoffel,
to decide whether it should be a request or a command, so that Walter
would have no reason to be "stuck-up." For that she could not endure
in a child.

"Walter, did you know your lesson?"

"No, mother; I had to learn thirteen mountains in Asia, and I knew
only nine."

"Now, look here, that won't do. I'm paying tuition for nothing. Do you
think money grows on my back? I don't know what's to become of you."

"I don't know, either."

After all, though, Walter was flattered by the commission to write
a poem. Stoffel's and Juffrouw Pieterse's efforts to conceal their
real opinion of his poetical talents had been useless. It was a
pleasant surprise for the boy to learn that he was looked up to. He
had always heard that he was worse than worthless, and that he would
never amount to anything. It interested him now to hear the assurance
of his mother and Stoffel that the commission was only a punishment for
not knowing the mountains in Asia. In a great rush Stoffel taught him
the difference between "masculine" and "feminine" verses, explaining
that these must alternate, that all must be of the same length, and
that if at any time the boy was in doubt he would clear the matter up,
etc., etc.

Walter was delighted. He went to the back room, got a slate pencil
and began to write. It could hardly be called a success. "A widower
of God"--"O God, a widower!" That was as far as he got.

He gnawed on the pencil till he had pulverized it and worn out his
teeth, but it wouldn't go. He was continually being interrupted
by Stoffel's masculine and feminine verses. He had been too proud,
and now he was recei