It then gets knotted, looped, and all up-jumbled,
And long before I get it straight again, unwumbled,
To make my verse or story,
The interfering sun has risen
And burst with passion through my silky prison
To melt it down in dew,
Like so much spider-gossamer or fairy-cotton.
Don't you?
_I_ call it rotten!
A hushed silence followed. Eyes sought the fire. No one spoke for
several minutes. There was a faint laughter, quickly over, but
containing sighs. Only Jinny stared straight into her father's face,
expecting more, though prepared at any stage to explode with unfeigned
admiration.
'But that "don't you" comes in the wrong place,' she objected
anxiously. 'It ought to come after "I call it rotten"---' She was
determined to make it seem all right.
'No, Jinny,' he answered gravely, 'you must always put others before
yourself. It's the first rule in life and literature.'
She dropped her eyes to the fire like the others. 'Ah,' she said, 'I
see; of course.' The long word blocked her mind like an avalanche,
even while she loved it.
'_I_ call it rotten,' murmured Monkey under her breath. Jimbo made no
audible remark. He crossed his little legs and folded his arms. He was
not going to express an opinion until he understood better what it was
all about.
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