No denying it.
Doesn't it ever get you ?" "No," said Diane.

"Besides, I never bumped my brain--" "That could be remedied," hinted Philip, "if you think it would alter matters--" Diane was quite sure it would not and later Philip departed for the hay-camp in the best of spirits.

In the morning Diane found a conspicuous placard hung upon a tree.

The placard bore a bombastic ode, most clever in its trenchant satire, entitled--"To a Wild Mosquito--by One who Knows!" Since an ill-fated occasion when Mr.Poynter had found a neatly indited ode to a wild geranium written in a flowing foreign hand, his literary output had been prodigious.

Dirges, odes, sonnets and elegies frequently appeared in spectacular places about the camp and as Mr.
Poynter's highly sympathetic nature led him to eulogize the lowlier and less poetic life of the woodland, the result was frequently of striking originality.
Convinced that Mr.Poynter's eyes were upon her from the hay-camp, Diane read the ode with absolute gravity and consigned it to the fire.
The minstrel's attitude toward the hay-nomad might be one of subtle undermining and shrugging ridicule, but surely with his imperturbable gift of satire, Mr.Poynter held the cards! Still another morning Diane found a book at the edge of her camp.
"I am dropping this accidentally as I leave," read the fly leaf in Philip's scrawl.