human
May 4. Sold; but I don't know who to or at what price. Close to schedule, though.
gpt
May 5. The Babies' Fund Fair--Holiday. Nothing doing.
human
I wish I could write poetry,
gpt
Why don't you try it?
human
I did, he confessed with a disappointed laugh.
gpt
I hadn't the nerve to be mushy enough, though--and nothing else seems to be real poetry. I got one line that listened like the goods, but I couldn't match it up: 'As I lie awake and look at the stars--' Pretty good start, eh? How do you find a rhyme for it?
human
You go down through the alphabet, Polly advised him, rather proud to be able to answer him so promptly.
gpt
Bars, cars, fars, jars--that way, you know. How I found out is that Sister Winnie writes so much poetry.
human
She's a great kid, laughed Johnny.
gpt
Where is she?
human
Round here some place, giving orders to Sammy Chirp. Why are you loafing this afternoon? You're supposed to be making five thousand dollars an hour, but I don't see any chance for it here.
gpt
It's a holiday, he retorted.
human
You're loafing yourself. I see it's on the program that you're to sell a quarter's worth of violets and a smile, for five dollars a throw at the boutonniere booth. Notice how I said boutonniere?
gpt
You got it out of a book, charged Polly disdainfully.
human
I called Constance over from the candy booth to take my place because a gray-haired rusher came back seven times to have me pin violets on his coat--and I couldn't smile any more. There he goes now. That's his second trip for Constance.
gpt
This is a cruel world. I suppose it would fuss her all up if I dropped him out of a window,
human
Constance doesn't need help. Just watch her!