“Why did you put that in, Rosy?” asked Ellen Gray:  “it strikes me as hardly necessary.”

“Oh,” replied Rose, “I put that in to encourage Silvery Mary there.  She’s expecting a box soon, and I knew that she would pine to give the Society a share, but would be too timid to propose it; so I thought I would just pave the way.”

“How truly kind!” laughed Clover.

“Now,” said the President, “the entertainment of the meeting will begin by the reading of ‘Trailing Arbutus,’ a poem by C. E. C.”

Clover had been very unwilling to read the first piece, and had only yielded after much coaxing from Rose, who had bestowed upon her in consequence the name of Quintia Curtia.  She felt very shy as she stood up with her paper in hand, and her voice trembled perceptibly; but after a minute she grew used to the sound of it, and read steadily.

TrailingArbutus.

I always think, when looking
At its mingled rose and white,
Of the pink lips of children
Put up to say good-night.

Cuddled its green leaves under,
Like babies in their beds,
Its blossoms shy and sunny
Conceal their pretty heads.

And when I lift the blanket up,
And peep inside of it,
They seem to give me smile for smile,
Nor be afraid a bit.

Dear little flower, the earliest
Of all the flowers that are;
Twinkling upon the bare, brown earth,
As on the clouds a star.

How can we fail to love it well,
Or prize it more and more! 
It is the first small signal
That winter time is o’er;

That spring has not forgotten us,
Though late and slow she be,
But is upon her flying way,
And we her face shall see.

This production caused quite a sensation among the girls.  They had never heard any of Clover’s verses before, and thought these wonderful.

“Why!” cried Sally Alsop, “it is almost as good as Tupper!” Sally meant this for a great compliment, for she was devoted to the “Proverbial Philosophy.”

“A Poem by E.D.” was the next thing on the list.  Esther Dearborn rose with great pomp and dignity, cleared her throat, put on a pair of eye-glasses, and began.

MissJane.

Who ran to catch me on the spot,
If I the slightest rule forgot,
Believing and excusing not? 

          
                                                  Miss Jane.

Who lurked outside my door all day
In hopes that I would disobey,
And some low whispered word would say? 

          
                                                  Miss Jane.

Who caught our Rose-bud half way through
The wall which parted her from two
Friends, and that small prank made her rue? 

          
                                                  Miss Jane.

Who is our bane, our foe, our fear? 
Who’s always certain to appear
Just when we do not think her near? 

                                                            Miss Jane.