236 Candor

“I KNOW what you ’re going to say,” she said,

And she stood up looking uncommonly tall;

“You are going to speak of the hectic Fall,

And say you ’re sorry the summer ’s dead.

And no other summer was like it, you know,

And can I imagine what made it so?

Now are n’t you, honestly?” “Yes,” I said.

“I know what you ’re going to say,” she said;

“You are going to ask if I forget

That day in June when the woods were wet,

And you carried me”—here she dropped her head—

“Over the creek; you are going to say,

Do I remember that horrid day.

Now are n’t you, honestly?” “Yes,” I said.

“I know what you ’re going to say,” she said;

“You are going to say that since that time

You have rather tended to run to rhyme,

And”—her clear glance fell and her cheek grew red—

“And have I noticed your tone was queer?—

Why, everybody has seen it here!—

Now are n’t you, honestly?” “Yes,” I said.

“I know what you ’re going to say,” I said;

“You ’re going to say you ’ve been much annoyed,

And I ’m short of tact—you will say devoid—

And I ’m clumsy and awkward, and call me Ted,

And I bear abuse like a dear old lamb,

And you ’ll have me, anyway, just as I am.

Now are n’t you, honestly?”

“Ye-es,” she said.