The Girl from Arizona Part 20

"The next poem," announced Lulu, when order had been restored, "is by Miss Marjorie Graham of Arizona. Get up, Marjorie."

Marjorie's heart was beating rather fast as she rose, but there was a merry twinkle in her eye, and if her voice shook a little when she began to read, it was more from suppressed laughter than from fear.

"THE BORING LIFE OF NEW YORK.

"Some think it delightful to live in New York, But with them I do not agree; 'Tis nothing but hustle and bustle and talk, All very distasteful to me.

"I love all the pleasures the country can give, The beautiful flowers and the birds; The city produces not one of these things, Only traffic and crowds by the herds.

"The city is good as a workshop for men, Who in parks idle moments may pa.s.s, But the pleasure for children e'en there is quite spoiled, When a sign bids them 'Keep off the Gra.s.s.'"

A burst of genuine applause followed this production, and Marjorie sat down again quite covered with confusion.

"It's splendid; I couldn't have written anything half so good,"

whispered Betty encouragingly. "I am rather glad I am not to be a member of the Club, for I know I could never have written two lines that rhymed."

"The next poem," continued Lulu, in her business-like tone, "is by Miss Gertrude Rossiter," and Gertie, looking very much embarra.s.sed, rose, and began:

"THE STORM AT SEA.

"The waves did beat on a rocky sh.o.r.e; The noise resounded more and more; A little craft was tossed on the sea, And all knew that saved she might not be.

"The crew were gathered on the deck, Awaiting the crash of the awful wreck; Many hearts stopped beating as the time drew near To bid good-bye to their children dear.

"The babies and children all did shriek, And now their voices grew very weak.

The staunch big men grew white with fear, At the thought of death that was so near.

"But all at once the winds did cease, The waves stopped tossing, and there was peace, The children stopped crying; with joy they all laughed, And gladness prevailed on that safe little craft."

There was more applause, mingled with laughter, and Elsie whispered to Carol, quite loud enough to be heard by several others:

"Did you ever hear anything so silly? Even the meter is wrong; there are too many words in some lines, and not enough in others."

"Read yours next, Lulu," said Winifred, before her friend could make another announcement. "Lulu writes beautiful poetry," she added in a lower tone to Jack Randall; "I'm crazy to know what she's written this time."

Lulu protested that as hostess her turn should come last, but several other girls joined their entreaties to Winifred's, and she was forced to yield. Blus.h.i.+ng and smiling, she took a sheet of paper from her pocket, and began to read:

"THE FIRE.

"The forest trees were waving in the wind; The sun was slowly sinking o'er the hill, The clouds in purple, gold and blue outlined, Were mirrored in the still pond by the mill.

"The birds were twittering their last good-night; The dainty flow'rets closing up their eyes, When all at once a fearful lurid light Shone in the many-colored sunset skies.

"Quickly that awe-inspiring fire spread, And many a tall and stately tree there fell.

The timid animals and birds all fled, And naught but charred remains were left the tale to tell.

"At morn when in his glory rose the sun, Over the blackened, devastated hill, The scene that there the traveler looked upon Seemed to his inmost heart to send a chill."

"Isn't she wonderful?" whispered Winifred excitedly to Jack. "I told you hers would be the best."

"It's very pretty," Jack admitted, "but I think I like the one about Ria and the Bear the best of all."

"The next poem," announced Lulu, when the applause had subsided, "is by Miss Elsie Carleton."

There was a little flutter of excitement as Elsie rose--as the brightest girl in the school, a good deal was expected of her. Some of the girls noticed with surprise, that Elsie had grown rather pale, but her voice was as calm and superior as ever, when she unfolded her paper, and began:

"G.o.d KNOWS.

"Oh, wild and dark was the winter's night When the emigrant s.h.i.+p went down, But just outside the harbor bar, In the sight of the startled town.

And the wind howled, and the sea roared, And never a soul could sleep, Save the little ones on their mothers' b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Too young to watch and weep.

"No boat could live in that angry surf, No rope could reach the land-- There were bold, brave hearts upon the sh.o.r.e; There was many a helping hand; Men who strove, and women who prayed, Till work and prayer were vain; And the sun rose over that awful void, And the silence of the main.

"All day the watchers paced the sand; All day they scanned the deep; All night the booming minute guns Echoed from steep to steep.

'Give up thy dead, oh cruel sea!'

They cried athwart the s.p.a.ce, But only a baby's fragile form Escaped from its stern embrace.

"Only one little child of all, Who with the s.h.i.+p went down, That night while the happy babies slept All warm in the sheltered town.

There in the glow of the morning light It lay on the s.h.i.+fting sand, Pure as a sculptor's marble dream, With a sh.e.l.l in its dimpled hand.

"There were none to tell of its race or kin-- 'G.o.d knows,' the pastor said, When the sobbing children crowded to ask The name of the baby dead.

And so when they laid it away at last, In the churchyard's hushed repose, They raised a slab at the baby's head, With the carven words 'G.o.d knows.'"

There was a general murmur of admiration, as Elsie sat down again, in the midst of a burst of applause louder than had greeted any of the other productions.

"Wasn't it lovely?" whispered Winifred to Jack, as she wiped her eyes.

"I do love those sad pieces, don't you?"

"They're all right," said Jack, a little doubtfully, "but don't you like the funny ones that make you laugh, better? Ria and the Bear was so funny."

"That poem is really beautiful," declared Betty Randall, turning to Marjorie, and speaking in a tone of hearty admiration. "She must be an awfully clever girl to have written it; it's quite good enough to be published."

But Marjorie did not answer. She had given one violent start when Elsie began the first line of her poem, and at the same moment she had caught the expression on Beverly Randolph's face. After that she had sat quite still, with crimson cheeks, and a heart that was beating so loudly she was almost afraid people must hear it. In her mind was a mild confusion of feelings; astonishment, mortification, and incredulity, and, worst of all, the knowledge that at least one other person in the room besides herself knew. When the burst of applause came she was conscious of a momentary sensation of relief. At least no one was going to speak yet.

She cast an imploring glance at Beverly, but his face expressed nothing beyond amus.e.m.e.nt and a sort of indifferent contempt.

There were more poems read; some funny, some sentimental; but Marjorie scarcely heard them. In her thoughts there was room but for one thing.

Even the wonderful story Betty had told about her brother and Dr.

Randolph was swept away in the shock of the discovery she had made.

Several times she glanced at Elsie, fully expecting to see some expression of shame or remorse but that young lady was looking the picture of smiling content.

When the poems had all been read, there was a general move, and pencils and bits of paper were handed around.

"One of the boys will pa.s.s round a hat," Lulu explained, "and you must all drop your votes into it." Then, with a sudden generous impulse, she went up to Elsie and held out her hand.

"Yours was ever so much the best, Elsie," she said, frankly; "you certainly deserve to be president."