“Don’t touch them—you have no right!” gasped Emily frantically.
But Miss Brownell had the “bunch of poetry” in her hands. She turned and walked up to the platform. Emily followed. Those poems were very dear to her. She had composed them during the various stormy recesses when it had been impossible to play out of doors and written them down on disreputable scraps of paper borrowed from her mates. She had meant to take them home that very evening and copy them on letter-bills. And now this horrible woman was going to read them to the whole jeering, giggling school.
But Miss Brownell realized that the time was too short for that. She had to content herself with reading over the titles, with some appropriate comments.
Meanwhile Perry Miller was relieving his feelings by bombarding Rhoda Stuart with spit pills, so craftily timed that Rhoda had no idea from what quarter of the room they were coming and so could not “tell” on anyone. They greatly interfered with her enjoyment of Emily’s scrape, however. As for Teddy Kent, who did not wage war with spit pills but preferred subtler methods of revenge, he was busy drawing something on a sheet of paper. Rhoda found the sheet on her desk the next morning; on it was depicted a small, scrawny monkey, hanging by its tail from a branch; and the face of the monkey was as the face of Rhoda Stuart. Whereat Rhoda Stuart waxed wroth, but for the sake of her own vanity tore the sketch to tatters and kept silence regarding it. She did not know that Teddy had made a similar sketch, with Miss Brownell figuring as a vampirish-looking bat, and thrust it into Emily’s hand as they left school.
“ ’The Lost Dimond—a Romantic Tale,’ ” read Miss Brownell. “ ’Lines on a Birch Tree’—looks to me more like lines on a very dirty piece of paper, Emily—‘Lines Written on a Sundial in our Garden’—ditto—‘Lines to my Favourite Cat’—another romantic tail, I presume—‘Ode to Ilse’—‘Thy neck is of a wondrous pearly sheen’—hardly that, I should say. Ilse’s neck is very sunburned—‘A Deskripshun of Our Parlour,’ ’The Violets Spell’—I hope the violet spells better than you do, Emily—‘The Disappointed House’—
“ ’Lilies lifted up white cups
For the bees to dr—r—i—i—nk.’ ”
“I didn’t write it that way!” cried tortured Emily.
“ ’Lines to a Piece of Brokade in Aunt Laura’s Burow Drawer,’ ‘Farewell on Leaving Home,’ ‘Lines to a Spruce Tree’—‘It keeps off heat and sun and glare,’ ’Tis a goodly tree I ween’—are you quite sure that you know what ‘ween’ means, Emily?—‘Poem on Mr. Tom Bennet’s Field’—‘Poem on the Vew from Aunt Elizabeth’s Window’—you are strong on ‘v-e-w-s,’ Emily—‘Epitaff on a Drowned Kitten,’ ‘Meditashuns at the tomb of my great great grandmother’—poor lady—‘To my Northern Birds’—‘Lines composed on the bank of Blair Water gazing at the stars’—h’m—h’m—
“ ’Crusted with uncounted gems,
Those stars so distant, cold and true,’
Don’t try to pass those lines off as your own, Emily. You couldn’t have written them.”
“I did—I did!” Emily was white with sense of outrage. “And I’ve written lots far better.”
Miss Brownell suddenly crumpled the ragged little papers up in her hand.
“We have wasted enough time over this trash,” she said. “Go to your seat, Emily.”
She moved towards the stove. For a moment Emily did not realize her purpose. Then, as Miss Brownell opened the stove door, Emily understood and bounded forward. She caught at the papers and tore them from Miss Brownell’s hand before the latter could tighten her grasp.
“You shall not burn them—you shall not have them,” gasped Emily. She crammed the poems into the pocket of her “baby apron” and faced Miss Brownell in a kind of calm rage. The Murray look was on her face—and although Miss Brownell was not so violently affected by it as Aunt Elizabeth had been, it nevertheless gave her an unpleasant sensation, as of having roused forces with which she dared not tamper further. This tormented child looked quite capable of flying at her, tooth and claw.
“Give me those papers, Emily,”—but she said it rather uncertainly.
“I will not,” said Emily stormily. “They are mine. You have no right to them. I wrote them at recesses—I didn’t break any rules. You”—Emily looked defiantly into Miss Brownell’s cold eyes—“You are an unjust, tyrannical person.”
Miss Brownell turned to her desk.
“I am coming up to New Moon tonight to tell your Aunt Elizabeth of this,” she said.
Emily was at first too much excited over saving her precious poetry to pay much heed to this threat. But as her excitement ebbed cold dread flowed in. She knew she had an unpleasant time ahead of her. But at all events they should not get her poems—not one of them, no matter what they did to her. As soon as she got home from school she flew to the garret and secreted them on the shelf of the old sofa.
She wanted terribly to cry but she would not. MissBrownell was coming and Miss Brownell should not see her with red eyes. But her heart burned within her. Some sacred temple of her being had been desecrated and shamed. And more was yet to come, she felt wretchedly sure. Aunt Elizabeth was certain to side with Miss Brownell. Emily shrank from the impending ordeal with all the dread of a sensitive, fine strung nature facing humiliation. She would not have been afraid of justice; but she knew at the bar of Aunt Elizabeth and Miss Brownell she would not have justice.
“And I can’t write Father about it,” she thought, her little breast heaving. The shame of it all was too deep and intimate to be written out, and so she could find no relief for her pain.
They did not have supper at New Moon in winter time until Cousin Jimmy had finished his chores and was ready to
