With a proud air she crushingly departed, returning to her own home far
from dissatisfied with what she had accomplished. Moreover, she began to
expand with the realization of a new importance; and she was gratified
with the effect upon her parents, at dinner that evening, when she
informed them that she had written a poem, which was to be published in
the prospective first number of _The North End Daily Oriole_.
"Written a _poem_?" said her father. "Well, I declare! Why, that's
remarkable, Florence!"
"I'm glad the boys were nice about it," said her mother. "I should have
feared they couldn't appreciate it, after being so cross to you about
letting you have anything to do with the printing-press. They must have
thought it was a very good poem."
"Where is the poem, Florence?" Mr. Atwater asked. "Let's read it and see
what our little girl can do when she really tries."
Unfortunately Florence had not a copy, and when she informed her father
of this fact, he professed himself greatly disappointed as well as eager
for the first appearance of _The Oriole_, that he might felicitate
himself upon the evidence of his daughter's heretofore unsuspected
talent. Florence was herself anxious for the newspaper's début, and she
made her anxiety so clear to Atwater & Rooter, Owners & Propreitors,
every afternoon after school, during the following week, that by
Thursday further argument and repartee on their part were felt to be
indeed futile; and in order to have a little peace around there, they
carried her downstairs. At least, they defined their action as
"carrying," and, having deposited her in the yard, they were obliged to
stand guard at the doors, which they closed and contrived to hold
against her until her strength was worn out for that day.
Florence consoled herself. During the week she dropped in on all the
members of "the family"--her grandfather, uncles and aunts and cousins,
her great-aunts and great-uncles--and in each instance, after no
protracted formal preliminaries, lightly remarked that she wrote poetry
now; her first to appear in the forthcoming _Oriole_. And when
Great-Aunt Carrie said, "Why, Florence, you're wonderful! I couldn't
write a poem to save my life. I never _could_ see how they do it,"
Florence laughed, made a deprecatory little side motion with her head,
and responded, "Why, Aunt Carrie, that's nothing! It just kind of comes
to you."
This also served as her explanation when some of her school friends
expressed their admiration, after being told the news in confidence;
though to one of the teachers she said, smiling ruefully, as in
remembrance of midnight oil, "It _does_ take work, of course!"
* * * * *
When opportunity offered, upon the street, she joined people she knew
(or even rather distant acquaintances) to walk with them a little way
and lead the conversation to the subject of poetry, including her own
contribution to that art. Altogether, if Florence was not in a fair way
to become a poetic celebrity it was not her own fault but entirely that
of _The North End Daily Oriole_, which was to make its appearance on
Saturday, but failed to do so on account of too much enthusiasm on the
part of Atwater & Rooter in manipulating the printing-press. It broke,
had to be repaired; and Florence, her nerves upset by the accident,
demanded her money back. This was impossible, and the postponement
proved to be but an episode; moreover, it gave her time to let more
people know of the treat that was coming.
Among these was Noble Dill. Until the Friday following her
disappointment she had found no opportunity to acquaint her Very Ideal
with the news; and but for an encounter partly due to chance, he might
not have heard of it. A sentimental enrichment of colour in her cheeks
was the result of her catching sight of him, as she was on the point of
opening and entering her own front door, that afternoon, on her return
from school. He was passing the house, walking somewhat dreamily.
Florence stepped into the sheltering vestibule, peeping round it with
earnest eyes to watch him as he went by; obviously he had taken no note
of her. Satisfied of this, she waited until he was at a little distance,
then ran lightly down to the gate, hurried after him and joined him.
"Why, Mr. Dill!" she exclaimed, in her mother's most polished manner.
"How supprising to see _you_! I presume as we both happen to be walking
the same direction we might just's well keep together."
"Surprising to see me?" Noble said vaguely. "I haven't been away
anywhere in particular, Florence." Then, at a thought, he brightened.
"I'm glad to see you, Florence. Do you know if any of your family or
relatives have heard when your Aunt Julia is coming home?"
"Aunt Julia? She's out of town," said Florence. "She's visiting
different people she used to know when she was away at school."
"Yes, I know," Mr. Dill returned. "But she's been gone six weeks."
"Oh, I don't believe it's that long," Florence said casually; then with
more earnestness: "Mr. Dill, I was goin' to ask you somep'n--it's kind
of a funny question for _me_ to ask, but----"
"Yes, she has," Noble interrupted, not aware that his remark was an
interruption. "Oh, yes, she has!" he said. "It was six weeks
day-before-yesterday afternoon. I saw your father downtown this morning,
and he said he didn't know that any of the family had heard just when
she was coming home. I thought maybe some of your relatives had a letter
from her by this afternoon's mail, perhaps."
"I guess not," said Florence. "Mr. Dill, there was a question I thought
I'd ask you. It's kind of a funny question for _me_----"
"Are you _sure_ nobody's heard from your Aunt Julia to-day?" Noble
insisted.
"I guess they haven't. Mr. Dill, I was goin' to ask you----"
"It's strange," he murmured, "I don't see how people can enjoy visits
that long. I should think they'd get anxious about what might happen at
home."
"Oh, grandpa's all right; he says he kind of likes to have the house
nice and quiet to himself; and anyway Aunt Julia enjoys visiting,"
Florence assured him. "Aunt Fanny saw a newspaper from one the places
where Aunt Julia's visiting her school room-mate. It had her picture in
it and called her 'the famous Northern Beauty'; it was down South
somewhere. Well, Mr. Dill, I was just sayin' I believe I'd ask you----"
But a sectional rancour seemed all at once to affect the young man. "Oh,
yes. I heard about that," he said. "Your Aunt Fanny lent my mother the
newspaper. Those people in _that_ part of the country--well----" He
paused, remembering that it was only Florence he addressed; and he
withheld from utterance his opinion that the Civil War ought to be
fought all over again. "Your father said your grandfather hadn't heard
from her for several days, and even then she hadn't said when she was
coming home."
"No, I expect she didn't," said Florence. "Mr. Dill, I was goin' to ask
you somep'n--it's kind of a queer kind of question for _me_ to ask, I
guess----" She paused. However, he did not interrupt her, seeming
preoccupied with gloom; whereupon Florence permitted herself a
deprecatory laugh, and continued, "It might be you'd answer yes, or it
might be you'd answer no; but anyway I was goin' to ask you--it's kind
of a funny question for _me_ to ask, I expect--but do you like poetry?"
"What?"
"Well, as things have turned out lately I guess it's kind of a funny
question, Mr. Dill, but do you like poetry?"
Noble's expression took on a coldness; for the word brought to his mind
a thought of Newland Sanders. "Do I like poetry?" said Noble. "No, I
don't."
Florence was momentarily discouraged; but at her age people usually
possess an invaluable faculty, which they lose later in life; and it is
a pity that they do lose it. At thirteen--especially the earlier months
of thirteen--they are still able to set aside and dismiss from their
minds almost any facts, no matter how audibly those facts have asked for
recognition. Children superbly allow themselves to become deaf, so to
speak, to undesirable circumstances; most frequently, of course, to
undesirable circumstances in the way of parental direction; so that
fathers, mothers, nurses, or governesses, not comprehending that this
mental deafness is for the time being entirely genuine, are liable to
hoarseness both of throat and temper. Thirteen is an age when the fading
of this gift or talent, one of the most beautiful of childhood, begins
to impair its helpfulness under the mistaken stress of discipline; but
Florence retained something of it. In a moment or two Noble Dill's
disaffection toward poetry was altogether as if it did not exist.
She coughed, inclined her head a little to one side, in her mother's
manner of politeness to callers, and, repeating her deprecatory laugh,
remarked: "Well, of course it's kind of a funny question for _me_ to
ask, of course."
"What is, Florence?" Noble inquired absently.
"Well--what I was saying was that 'course it's sort of queer _me_ askin'
if you liked poetry, of course, on account of my _writing_ poetry the
way I do now."
She looked up at him with a bright readiness to respond modestly to
whatever exclamation his wonder should dictate; but Noble's attention
had straggled again.
"Has she written your mother lately?" he asked.
Florence's expression denoted a mental condition slightly disturbed.
"No," she said. "It's goin' to be printed in _The North End Daily
Oriole_."
"What?"
"My poem. It's about a vast amen--anyhow, that's proba'ly the best thing
in it, I guess--and they're goin' to have it out to-morrow, or else
they'll have to settle with _me_; that's one thing certain! I'll bring
one over to your house and leave it at the door for you, Mr. Dill."
Noble had but a confused notion of what she thus generously promised.
However, he said, "Thank you," and nodded vaguely.
"Of course, I don't know as it's so awful good," Florence admitted
insincerely. "The family all seem to think it's something pretty much;
but I don't know if it is or not. _Really_, I don't!"
"No," said Noble, still confused. "I suppose not."
"I'm half way through another one I think myself'll be a good deal
better. I'm not goin' as fast with it as I did with the other one, and I
expect it'll be quite a ways ahead of this one." She again employed the
deprecatory little laugh. "I don't know how I do it, myself. The family
all think it's sort of funny I don't know how I do it, myself; but
that's the way it is. They all say if they could do it they're sure
they'd know how they did it; but I guess they're wrong. I presume if you
can do it, why, it just _comes_ to you. Don't you presume that's the way
it is, Mr. Dill?"
"I--guess so." They had reached his gate, and he stopped. "You're sure
none of your family have heard anything to-day?" he asked anxiously.
"From Aunt Julia? I don't think they have."