A mad delicious glory; a rainbow rhythm of life,
Strong and young and free, a burst of the senses all astrife,
Each one fighting to be first,
While above, beyond them all,
Loud a woman's heart makes call."
"Now, fire ahead," said Eric, "get your stones ready. Mrs. Jerrold, pray
begin; let us put down this young parrot with her 'lusty, live wine.'"
"Her?" exclaimed Edith. "Him, you mean."
"Not a bit of it; a woman wrote that, didn't she?"
Eric was very confident. Norman agreed with him, and he glanced at Mae
to discover her opinion. There was a look of secret amusement in her
face, and a dim suspicion entered his mind, which decided him to watch
her closely.
"Well," said Mrs. Jerrold, "I will be lenient. You children may throw
all the stones. It is not poetry to my taste. There's no metre to it,
and I should certainly be sorry to think a woman wrote it."
"Why?" asked Mae, quickly, almost commandingly. Norman glanced at her.
There was a tiny rosebud on each cheek.
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