_MAGGIE’S POEM._
“Isn’t it a nice day, Maggie?” said Bessie, coming to her sister, who
was leaning with both arms on the railing which guarded the upper-deck,
watching the flashing water, the magnificent mountains, the blue sky,
and all the other beauties around and above her.
“Yes,” answered Maggie; “and we’re having such a nice sail, except for
that man. Bessie, my head is quite full of poetry about it.”
“Write some then,” said Bessie; “and we’ll send it to my soldier. He’ll
be so pleased. I’ll ask papa for a pencil and some paper;” and she
made her request to her father, who let her take his memorandum-book
for the purpose; and, furnished with this and excited by all the
beauty around, Maggie broke forth into the following verses, the first
of which was thought remarkably fine by Bessie and herself, as being
not only extremely poetical, but also as containing a great deal of
religious sentiment very touchingly expressed:--
“POEM ON A STEAMBOAT SAIL.
“I have so very many mercies,
I have to write them down in verses;
Because my heart in praise goes up
For such a full and heaped-up cup.
“But, ah! ’tis my unhappy fate
To see on board a man I hate:
I know I should not be so mad;
But he behaves so very bad.”
“‘Hate’ there only means ‘can’t bear,’” said Maggie, when she had
finished this last verse and read it aloud to her sister: “but you see
‘can’t bear’ don’t rhyme very well with ‘fate;’ and I want to put that,
it is such a very poetical word, and sounds so very grown-up-y. I had
to put that verse about Mr. Temple for a relief to my feelings; and
‘hate’ must be excused.”
“That first verse is lovely,” said Bessie. “It sounds so very nice;
and, besides, it is so pious.”
“Yes,” said Maggie. “I thought I’d better begin with a little religion
and gratitude. Besides, it was that made the poetry come into my ideas,
Bessie. I was thinking how very good and grateful we ought to be, when
God gives us such a very beautiful world to look at, and travel about
in.”
“Yes,” said Bessie, putting her head on one side and giving her sister
a look which expressed as much admiration and affection as a look could
do, “yes: what a very smart, nice girl you are, Maggie!”
“You think so,” said Maggie; “but everybody don’t.”
“That’s they don’t know any better,” said Bessie, whose praise might
have spoiled Maggie, if the latter had been at all vain and conceited.
“The second verse isn’t very pious,” said Maggie, looking at it
doubtfully; “but I guess I’ll leave it in.”
“And you can explain it to Uncle Horace when you write to him,” said
Bessie. “But make some more, Maggie: your poetry is splendid.”