"That's a first-rater," called out Nat, and Daisy retired, pleased with the praise of her friend.
"Demi looks so impatient we must have him up at once or he won't hold out," said Uncle Fritz, and Demi skipped up with alacrity.
"Mine is a poem!" he announced in a tone of triumph, and read his first effort in a loud and solemn voice:—
"I write about the butterfly,
It is a pretty thing;
And flies about like the birds,
But it does not sing.
"First it is a little grub,
And then it is a nice yellow cocoon,
And then the butterfly
Eats its way out soon.
"They live on dew and honey,
They do not have any hive,
They do not sting like wasps, and bees, and hornets,
And to be as good as they are we should strive.
"I should like to be a beautiful butterfly,
All yellow, and blue, and green, and red;
But I should not like
To have Dan put camphor on my poor little head."
This unusual burst of genius brought down the house, and Demi was obliged to read it again, a somewhat difficult task, as there was no punctuation whatever, and the little poet's breath gave out before he got to the end of some of the long lines.
"He will be a Shakspeare yet," said Aunt Jo, laughing as if she would die, for this poetic gem reminded
