for to sport aloft    In the realms of the good and great. If Emmeline Grangerford could make poetry like that before she was fourteen, there ain't no telling what she could a done by and by.  Buck said she could rattle off poetry like nothing.  She didn't ever have to stop to think.  He said she would slap down a line, and if she couldn't find anything to rhyme with it would just scratch it out and slap down another one, and go ahead. She warn't particular; she could write about anything you choose to give her to write about just so it was sadful. Every time a man died, or a woman died, or a child died, she would be on hand with her “tribute” before he was cold.  She called them tributes. The neighbors said it was the doctor first, then Emmeline, then the undertaker--the undertaker never got in ahead of Emmeline but once, and then she hung fire on a rhyme for the dead person's name, which was Whistler.  She warn't ever the same after that; she never complained, but she kinder pined away and did not live long.  Poor thing, many's the time I made myself go up to the little room that used to be hers and get out her poor old scrap-book and read in it when her pictures had been aggravating me and I had soured on her a little.  I liked all that family, dead ones and all, and warn't going to let anything come between us.  Poor Emmeline made poetry about all the dead people when she was alive, and it didn't seem right that there warn't nobody to make some about her now she was gone; so I tried to sweat out a verse or two myself, but I couldn't seem to make it go somehow.  They kept Emmeline's room trim and nice, and all the things fixed in it just the way she liked to have them when she was alive, and nobody ever slept there.  The old lady took care of the room herself, though there was plenty of niggers, and she sewed there a good deal and read her Bible there mostly. Well, as I was saying about the parlor, there was beautiful curtains on the windows:  white, with pict