"The rhymes of young ladies are seldom worth reading. You
had better mend your stockings, and mind your embroidery, than waste
your time in such useless trash."
"It does not take up much of my time, aunt."
"How do you make it up out of your little head, Julee?" said the
Captain. "Come and sit upon my knee, and tell the father all about it. I
am sure I could sooner board a French man-of-war than tack two rhymes
together."
"I don't know, papa," said Juliet, laughing, and accepting the proffered
seat. "It comes into my head when it likes, and passes through my brain
with the rapidity of lightning. I find it without seeking, and often,
when I seek it, I cannot find it. The thing is a great mystery to
myself; but the possession of it makes me very happy."
"Weak minds, I have often been told, are amused by trifles," sneered
Aunt Dorothy.
"Then I must be very weak, aunt, for I am easily amused. Dear papa, give
me that paper."
"I must read it."
"'Tis silly stuff."
"Let me be the best judge of that. Perhaps it contains something that I
ought not to see?"
"Perhaps it does. Oh, no," she whispered in his ear; "but Aunt Dorothy
will sneer so at it."
The old man was too much pleased with his child to care for Aunt
Dorothy. He knew, of old, that her bark was worse than her bite; that
she really loved both him and his daughter; but she had a queer way of
showing it.
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