XI.

Her brother come this morning with a note

What said that she was home and sick in bed;

She's got an awful bad cold in her head —

They think it might run into the sore throat,

And oh, what if she'd not come back again,

And they would get some other girl instead

Of her to typewrite here, and she'd be dead?

I would n't care no more for nothin’ then.

I wish I was the doctor that they'd get,

And when I'd take her pulse I'd hold her hand

And say “Poor little girl!” to her, and set

Beside the bed awhile and kind of let

My arm go‘ round her, slow and careful, and

Say, “Now put out your tongue a little, pet.”