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I guess so,” Mrs. Bean said. “But it has got to be a roof poem. Otherwise, you write at the table.”
    “It will be a roof poem,” said Jenny. “That is a promise.” She crossed her heart.
    “And don’t bother Anna.”
    “I won’t. That’s another promise.”
    “Or the pigeons or the rabbits.”
    “I won’t. That’s—” Jenny stopped. “Does that mean I can’t say my poem for them?”
    “Well …”
    “Please, Mama, they never get to hear poems.”
    “All right.”
    Jenny stopped at the door. “And, Mama …”
    “What?”
    “Thank you very, very much.”
    Jenny ran up the steps. She pushed open the door. She stepped out on the roof. She took a breath of good roof air.
    Sheets snapped in the wind. Pigeons cooed. Rabbits hopped. Jenny smiled.
    “I’m here, everybody,” she said. “Mama says I can write a roof poem too!”
    “It’s not easy,” George warned.

Four Beans on the Roof
    Jenny ran to the edge of the roof. She called to her friends, “I can’t jump rope anymore. I have to write a poem. Bye!”
    Then she sat down between Anna and George.
    She said to George, “I love it up here. I am on top of the world.”
    She said to Anna, “This was a wonderful idea, Anna. I love being on the roof.”
    Anna frowned. She said, “Jenny, I thought you came up here to write a poem.”
    “I did.”
    “Then write it.”
    “I did.”
    “You’ve already written your poem?” George asked in surprise.
    George’s cat poem had come fast. His roof poem had not come at all.
    “Yes,” said Jenny. “Do you want to hear it?”
    “I do,” George said quickly.
    “Here goes,” Jenny said:
    I love the roof,
And that’s the truth.
    “It’s short,” George said.
    “I like short poems,” Jenny said.
    “But it doesn’t rhyme.”
    “It does when I say it,” Jenny said.
    Jenny was missing two front teeth. She said her poem again to show that it did rhyme:
    I love the roof,
And that’s the troof.
    Then she said, “See?”
    Anna said, “Yes. Now stop bothering me.”
    Jenny got up. She went over to the rabbit cage. She said, “Want to hear my poem, rabbits? You too, pigeons?”
    George said, “Mama said not to bother the rabbits and the pigeons.”
    “I’m reciting a poem for them. That is not bothering them.” She grinned. “Come on, String, you can be my announcer.”
    “Oh, all right.” George got up. He said to Anna, “I’ll do my poem later.” Then he went to the cages.
    “Announce it the way they do on the radio, String. Say—”
    “I know what to say. I listen to the radio too.” George cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen!”
    “It would be better if you said, Rabbits and—”
    George said, “Rabbits and gentlemen!”

    “Not Rabbits and gentlemen! String, you’re making me laugh. I won’t be able to say my poem. Rabbits and pigeons!”
    “Oh, all right! But this is the last time I’m doing it. Rabbits and pigeons! Here is a Bean saying a poem!”
    “Thank you.” Jenny Bean stepped forward. She said:
    I love the roof,
And that’s the troof.
    “String!” a voice called. It was Frankie at the window across the street. “What are you guys doing on the roof?”
    Jenny called back, “Oh, Frankie, we’re having so much fun. We’re making up poems.”
    “Don’t tell him that!” George said. “Don’t—” He broke off. He went and sat down by Anna. His face was red.
    Frankie said, “String is writing a po-em? String, can I hear your po-em?”
    George didn’t answer.
    “Can I come over and do a po-em?”
    Mrs. Bean heard Frankie. She stuck her head out the window. “No, Frankie, you can’t come over. Only Beans on the roof.”
    Frankie said, “Yes, Mrs. Bean.”
    “And,” Mrs. Bean went on, “the word is poem, Frankie. Not po-em.”
    “Yes, Mrs. Bean.” Frankie moved back from the window. Mrs. Bean did too.
    Suddenly Jenny said, “Mama!”
    “What? What happened?”
    Mrs. Bean put her head out the window again.
    “Nothing happened—I