"An elephant a traveller? Where does he travel to? I don't believe it."

"Well," replied Prudy, "I can't see any sense in it myself. O, stop a minute! Now I know; I didn't tell it right. This is the way; 'Why is an elephant like a traveller? Because he carries a trunk!' Isn't that funny?"

"I don't care anything about your elephants," said Dotty; "if you don't try to please me, Prudy Parlin, you'll have to wake up grandma, and call her in here, or I shall cry myself sick!"

Patient Prudy crept into bed, but left the lamp burning.

"Suppose we make up some poetry?" said she.

"Why, you don't know how to make up poetry--do you?" said Dotty, leaning on her elbow, and looking with dreamy eyes at the engraving of Christus Consolator at the foot of the bed. "I love poetry when they read it in concert at school. Don't you know,--

'Tremendous torrents! For an instant hush!'

Isn't that splendid?"

"Very splendid, indeed," replied Prudy, pinching herself to keep awake.

"I think Torrence is _such_ a nice name," pursued Dotty; "don't you tell anybody but when I'm married and have some boys, I'm going to name some of them Torrence."

"Not more than one, Dotty!"

"O, no, I couldn't; could I? There mustn't but one of them have the same name; I forgot. 'Tremendous Torrence!' I shall say; and then he'll come in and ask, 'What do you want, mother?'"

Prudy suddenly hid her face under the sheet. The absurdity of little Dotty's ideas had driven the sleep out of her eyes.

"It would do very well for a name for a very queer boy," said she, stifling a laugh; "but a torrent _generally_ means the Niagara Falls."

"Does it?" said Dotty; "who told you so? But I guess I shall call him by it just the same though--if his father is willing."

Dotty looked very much interested.

"What will you call the rest of your boys?" asked Prudy, glad to talk of anything which kept her little sister pleasant.

"I shan't have but two boys, and I shall name the other one for his father," replied Dotty, thoughtfully; "I shall have eight girls, for I like girls very much; and I shall dress them in silk and velvet, with gold rings on their fingers, a great deal handsomer than Jennie Vance's; but they won't be proud a bit. They never will have to be punished; for when they do wrong I shall look through my spectacles and say, 'Why, my eight daughters, I am very much surprised!' And then they will obey me in a minute."

"Yes," returned Prudy; "but don't you think now we'd better go to sleep?"

"No, indeed," said Dotty, drawing herself up in a little heap and holding her throbbing foot in her hand; "if you don't make poetry I'm going to make it myself. Hark!--

'Once there was a little boy going down hill; He leaped, he foamed, he struggled; and all was o'er.'

"Do you call that poetry?" said Prudy, laughing. "Why, where's the rhyme?"

"The rhyme? I s'pose I forgot to put it in. Tell me what a rhyme is, Prudy; _maybe_ I don't know!"

"A rhyme," replied her wise sister, "is a jingle like this: 'A boy and a toy,' 'A goose and a moose.'"

"O, is it? how queer! 'A hill and a pill,' that's a rhyme, too."

"Now," continued Prudy, "I'll make up some real poetry, and show you how. It won't take me more than a minute; its just as easy as knitting-work."

Prudy thought for a few seconds, and then recited the following lines in a sing-song tone:--

"When the sun Had got his daily work done, He put a red silk cloud on his head, (_For a night-cap you know,_) And went to bed.

He was there all sole alone; For just at that very time the moon (_That isn't a very nice rhyme, but I can't help it,_) Was dressed and up, And had eaten her sup- Per. 'Husband,' said Mrs. Moon, 'I can't stop to kiss you good by; I've got to leave you now and go up in the sky.'"

"O, how pretty!" said Dotty; "how it jingles! Did you make that up in your own head?"

"Yes, indeed; just as fast as I could knit once round. I could do a great deal better if I should spend more time. I mean to take a slate some time and write it all full of stars, and clouds, and everything splendid. I shall say, 'What a pity it is that a nice husband and wife, like the sun and moon, can't ever live together, but have to keep following each other round the sky and never get near enough to shake hands!' I'll pretend that it makes the moon look very sober indeed, but the sun isn't so tender-hearted; so he can bear it better. O, Dotty, don't you let me forget to put that into poetry! I can jingle it off, and make it sound beautiful!"

"I should think you might put my verse into poetry, too. Can't you say 'a pill rolled down hill?'" said Dotty.

"O, I can make poetry of it easier than that. You don't need to change but one word:--

'There was a little boy going down hill, He leaped, he foamed, he struggled;--and all was _still_.'"

Dotty repeated it several times with much delight. "That's beautiful,"

said she, "now honest; and I did almost the whole of it myself!"

After this she began to grow drowsy, and, forgetting her troubles, fell asleep, to the great relief of poor sister Prudy, who was not long in following her.

Next morning Prudy awoke at nearly the usual time; but her sister was still in the land of dreams, and she stole out of the room without disturbing her.

"Grandmamma," said she, "Dotty has had an awful night! I've had to be up with her, and trying to pacify her, most of the time."

"A whole hour," said grandma, smiling.

"O, grandma, it was nearly all night, but there didn't anybody know it; we talked low, so we needn't disturb you."

Grandmother and Aunt Maria smiled at each other across the table.

"I dare say, my dear," said Aunt Maria, "you thought you were as quiet as two little mice; but I a.s.sure you you kept everybody awake, except grandpa and Susy."

"Why, Aunt 'Ria!"

"But we learned a lesson in poetry-making," said Aunt Louise, "which was worth lying awake to hear. Don't you suppose, Maria, that even prosy people, like you and me, might jingle poetry till in time it would become as easy as knitting-work?"

Prudy blushed painfully.

"I thought," said Grace, "the sun must look very jolly in his red silk night-cap, only I was sorry you forgot to tell what he had for breakfast."

"Nothing but cold potatoes out of the cupboard," said Horace; "he keeps bachelor's hall. It's just as well the old fellow can't meet his wife, for she's made of green cheese, and he'd be likely to slice her up and eat her."

A tear glittered on Prudy's eyelashes. Horace was the first to observe it, and he hastened to change the subject by saying his johnny-cake was so thin he could cut it with a pair of scissors. By that time Prudy's tears had slyly dropped upon her napkin, and she would have recovered her spirits if Aunt Louise had not remarked carelessly,--

"Seems to me our little poetess is rather melancholy this morning."

Prudy's heart was swollen so high with tears that there would have been a flood in about a minute; but Horace exclaimed suddenly,--