Then list with tearful eye, Whilst I his fate do tell.
His soul did from this cold world fly By falling down a well.
They got him out and emptied him; Alas it was too late; His spirit was gone 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.