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asked.
    Anna was looking across the rooftops.
    “It’s not a long poem, Anna, and it’s a funny poem. It will make you laugh.”
    George laughed thinking about it.
    “Do you want to hear it, Anna—yes or no?”
    Anna didn’t answer.
    Finally George got tired of waiting. He said, “Well, here goes, ready or not.”
    He held up his paper. He began to read:
    The cat was fat.
It sat—
    “Mama,” Anna yelled, “String’s bothering me.”
    Mrs, Bean stuck her head out the window. “Now, Anna,” she called, “you know Idon’t like you to call your brother String. His name is George.”
    Anna said, “All right, George is bothering me, Mama.”
    “That’s better.”
    “I can’t write a poem with George reciting his junk.”
    George jumped up.
    “Mama, it is not junk! It is a poem! It rhymes.”
    “It may rhyme,” Anna said, “and it may be a poem. However, it is not a poem that has to be written on the roof. You could write a poem like that anywhere.”
    “I could not! I tried to write it at the table. Mama saw me. I tried and I could not write one word.”
    “I will show you a roof poem,” Anna said. “This is a roof poem.”
    Mrs. Bean called, “Anna, if you’re goingto say your poem, please say it real loud. I want to hear it.”

    “I will, Mama.”
    Anna stood up. She held her head high. She said her poem good and loud:
    From my roof
I can see
Beyond the town,
Beyond the sea,
Beyond Africa,
Asia, too—
    Anna stopped. “That’s all I’ve got so far, Mama,” she said. “I have to think of something that rhymes with too.”
    “Goo, boo, cuckoo,” said George.
    “Do your own poem,” Anna said.
    “I did!”
    “The cat poem does not count. If you can’t do a roof poem, you have to go downstairs, and write at the table. Isn’t that right, Mama?”
    George said quickly, “My cat poem was a practice poem. Now I will do my real poem. It will be a roof poem.”
    To himself he said, And it will be the best roof poem in the whole world. It will even be better than Anna’s.
    He turned his paper over. He twirled his pencil. He bit it. He admired his teeth prints in the wood.
    He closed his eyes to think.

Three Beans on the Roof
    George got up. “I need a break,” he told Anna. “This is hard work.”
    George walked to the side of the roof. He looked over the wall.
    His sister Jenny was on the sidewalk below. Jenny was jumping rope.
    Instead of “Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear,” Jenny was saying:
    Jelly Bean, Jelly Bean,
Turn around.
Jelly Bean, Jelly Bean,
Touch the ground.
Jelly Bean, Jelly Bean,
Shine your shoes.
Jelly Bean, Jelly Bean,
Read the news.
    George yelled, “Jelly Bean! Look where I am!”
    “Time out,” Jenny said. She stopped jumping and looked up at the roof of her apartment building.
    George said, “Hello down there.”
    Jenny said, “String, is that you on the roof?”
    George said, “It’s not Santa Claus.”
    Jenny said, “String Bean, you know we are not allowed on the roof. I’m going to tell Mama.”
    Jenny ran upstairs and into the kitchen.
    “Mama!”
    “Don’t shout, Jenny,” Mrs. Bean said.
    “I have to shout! You have to hear this! String is playing on the roof!”

    Mrs. Bean said, “Jenny, I asked you not to call your brother String.”
    “I forgot. I’ll start over. George is playing on the roof.”
    “That’s better. Both George and Anna are on the roof, Jenny, but they are not playing.”
    “They aren’t?”
    “No.”
    “Then what are they doing?”
    “They are writing roof poems.”
    Jenny’s mouth fell open. “I didn’t know they could write roof poems, Mama.”
    “Yes, they can.”
    “George too?”
    “George is trying. The only place a Bean can write roof poems is on the roof.”
    “Can I go up and write a poem?” Jenny asked quickly.
    Jenny held her breath. After she wrote her poem, she would recite it for the rabbits.And the pigeons. It would be like a play! She was sure the rabbits and the pigeons had never seen a play.
    “Oh,