They spent the afternoon in the garden, walking along, their arms about each other’s waists.

Later they would care for games, but this first day was delightful just to talk together.

They passed a little arbor, and Polly stopped to admire it.

Just as she looked up at the vine that blossomed on its roof, a strange little face peeped over the hedge, then dodged out of sight.

“Who was that?” Polly asked.

“Who?  Where?”

“Just behind the hedge,” whispered Polly.

Rose looked, and in an opening at the lower part of the hedge she saw a bit of a dark gray frock.

“Oh, it’s Evangeline Longfellow Jenks, the little girl that’s going to be a poet,” whispered Rose.

“But you said her poetry was funny,” said Polly, as softly as Rose had spoken.

“It is” declared Rose, “but she keeps writing it all the time.”

Just then Evangeline’s round, white face again appeared above the hedge, and at that moment Aunt Rose came out on the porch.

“Come over here, Evangeline,” she said kindly, “and meet our little guest.”

“I’m not dressed up,” said the voice behind the hedge, “but I’ve just made a poem, and I can read it from here!”

Without waiting to be urged, and in a thin, high-pitched voice, she read these lines, which she earnestly believed were beautiful: 

“Oh, the sun is shining,
 And the moon is near by;
 I can’t see the moon,
 But it’s in the sky-
 Somewhere.

“I need no sun or moon;
 I’ll be a poet soon. 
 I write every day
 Some kind of a lay-
 Somewhere.”

“What does she mean?” whispered Polly.

“I don’t think it means anything, but she enjoys making up verses whether they mean anything or not,” Rose whispered in reply.

Polly was anxious to see what the little girl looked like who felt that she was to be a poet, but Evangeline Longfellow Jenks did not intend to be seen in an ordinary frock.

She felt that her position as a future poet demanded that she be finely dressed.

On this especial morning she had been doing a very unpoetic thing—­she had been trying to drink from the hose!

Her skirts were completely soaked, and her shoes were covered with mud that the dripping hose had splashed up from the garden bed.

“A person like me ought not to drink from a horrid old hose.  My mama read about some one, I’ve forgotten who, who drank from a crystal chalice.  I don’t know what that is, but it sounds grand, and I wish I had one,” murmured the small girl behind the hedge.

Aunt Rose repeated her invitation, but the poetic child seldom thought it necessary to be polite, and never replied unless she chose to.  This time she remained silent, and Aunt Rose, with an odd little smile returned to the house.

Then a strange thing happened.