On Sufferance "Scratch, scratch, scratch, Scratch went the old black hen! Every fowl that scrapes in the barn Can scratch as well as your pen!" So sang Rona, bounding noisily one afternoon into No.

3, Room 5, and popping her hands from behind over Ulyth's eyes as the latter sat writing at a table near the window.
"What are you always scratching away for?
Can't you finish your work at prep.?
Why don't you come downstairs and play basket-ball?
You're mighty studious all of a sudden.

What have you got here ?" Ulyth flushed crimson with annoyance, and turned her sheets of foolscap hastily over to hide them from her room-mate's prying eyes.
"You're not to touch my papers, Rona! I've told you that before." "Well, I wasn't touching them.

Looking's not touching, anyway.

What are you doing?
It's queer taste to sit scribbling here half your spare time." "What I was doing is my own concern, and no business of yours." "Now you're riled," said the Cuckoo, sitting down easily on her bed.