''You wouldn't believe what came in the mail for me today!'' said Aunt Dee when I phoned her. ''I've been chosen as the poet laurelei of the whole country!''

''Who chose you?'' I asked.

''Some poetry club. I sent them a poem of mine, and they're having a celebration in Montana where I'll get my prize. And they're having a fancy dinner in my honor, and some important movie actors will be there, and they'll make a tape of me getting the prize. And they're giving away $50,000 for the best new poem sent to them, 10 lines or less, and I could win it!''

''So you're planning to go?'' I asked.

''Why not? How many people get such honors?''

''Probably all who attend the celebration,'' I told her. ''I hate to disillusion you, but did it say in the letter that you are the only winner? Or that you will definitely get the prize money? Or that they will pay for your air fare, and your hotel accommodations, and your meals?''

''Well, no,'' she said, somewhat subdued. ''In fact they want me to pay $600 to attend the affair. I guess you don't think it's worth it.''

''Why don't you write them a letter saying that you regret that you can't attend, since you're being honored that day by the president (don't say the president of what), and that they should send you your trophy and your prize money. I'll bet you don't hear from them!''

''You're such a pestimist,'' she mourned. ''But maybe you're right. They gave the wrong name of my poem in the letter.''