Young Isaac turned into grandfather's pew and thumped the bag of
oatmeal down on the seat with a thud that cracked it. Then he
plumped down beside it, took off his hat, wiped his face, and
settled back to listen to the sermon, just as if it was all a
matter of course. When the service was over he hoisted his bag up
again, marched out of church, and drove home. He could never
understand why it made so much talk; but he was known by the name
of Oatmeal Frewen for years."
Our laughter, as we separated, rang sweetly through the old
orchard and across the far, dim meadows. Felicity and Cecily went
into the house and Sara Ray and the Story Girl went home, but
Peter decoyed me into the granary to ask advice.
"You know Felicity has a birthday next week," he said, "and I want
to write her an ode."
"A--a what?" I gasped.
"An ode," repeated Peter, gravely. "It's poetry, you know. I'll
put it in Our Magazine."
"But you can't write poetry, Peter," I protested.
"I'm going to try," said Peter stoutly. "That is, if you think
she won't be offended at me."
"She ought to feel flattered," I replied.
"You never can tell how she'll take things," said Peter gloomily.
"Of course I ain't going to sign my name, and if she ain't pleased
I won't tell her I wrote it.
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