I suspected, and now I know," laughed Rose, delighted to have caught him.
Much discomfited, Mac gave poor Keats a fling and, leaning on both elbows, tried to hide his face for it had reddened like that of a modest girl when teased about her lover.
"You needn't look so guilty; it is no sin to write poetry," said Rose, amused at his confession.
"It's a sin to call that rubbish poetry," muttered Mac with great scorn.
"It is a greater sin to tell a fib and say you never write it." "Reading so much sets one thinking about such things, and every fellow scribbles a little jingle when he is lazy or in love, you know," explained Mac, looking very guilty.
Rose could not quite understand the change she saw in him till his last words suggested a cause which she knew by experience was apt to inspire young men.

Leaning forward again, she asked solemnly, though her eyes danced with fun, "Mac, are you in love ?" "Do I look like it ?" And he sat up with such an injured and indignant face that she apologized at once, for he certainly did not look loverlike with hayseed in his hair, several lively crickets playing leapfrog over his back, and a pair of long legs stretching from tree to haycock.
"No, you don't, and I humbly beg your pardon for making such an unwarrantable insinuation.

It merely occurred to me that the general upliftedness I observe in you might be owing to that, since it wasn't poetry." "It is the good company I've been keeping, if anything.

A fellow can't spend 'A Week' with Thoreau and not be the better for it.

I'm glad I show it, because in the scramble life is to most of us, even an hour with such a sane, simple, and sagacious soul as his must help one," said Mac, taking a much worn book out of his pocket with the air of introducing a dear and honored friend.
"I've read bits, and like them they are so original and fresh and sometimes droll," said Rose, smiling to see what natural and appropriate marks of approbation the elements seemed to set upon the pages Mac was turning eagerly, for one had evidently been rained on, a crushed berry stained another, some appreciative field-mouse or squirrel had nibbled one corner, and the cover was faded with the sunshine, which seemed to have filtered through to the thoughts within.
"Here's a characteristic bit for you: 'I would rather sit on a pumpkin, and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion.