The way he stared and smiled made me feel about eleven inches high, and my voice kept growing smaller and smaller as I neared the end of my speech.
At last he spoke, laying down his pipe, and sitting back at his ease.
"So you have brought us a poem, my child ?" "It's about George Washington," I repeated impressively.

"Don't you want to read it ?" "I should be delighted, my dear, but the fact is--" He did not take my paper.

He stood up and called across the room.
"Say, Jack! here is a young lady who has brought us a poem--about George Washington .-- Wrote it yourself, my dear ?--Wrote it all herself.
What shall we do with her ?" Mr.Jack came over, and another man.

My editor made me repeat my business, and they all looked interested, but nobody took my paper from me.

They put their hands into their pockets, and my hand kept growing clammier all the time.