re you going to do first,
if you please?"

"I think I may tell you. Jump up on the top of the wall, there."

"I can't."

"Ah! and I can't help you--you haven't been to bed yet, you see. Come
out to the road with me, just in front of the coach-house, and I will
show you."

North Wind grew very small indeed, so small that she could not have
blown the dust off a dusty miller, as the Scotch children call a yellow
auricula. Diamond could not even see the blades of grass move as she
flitted along by his foot. They left the lawn, went out by the wicket
in the-coach-house gates, and then crossed the road to the low wall that
separated it from the river.

"You can get up on this wall, Diamond," said North Wind.

"Yes; but my mother has forbidden me."

"Then don't," said North Wind.

"But I can see over," said Diamond.

"Ah! to be sure. I can't."

So saying, North Wind gave a little bound, and stood on the top of the
wall. She was just about the height a dragon-fly would be, if it stood
on end.

"You darling!" said Diamond, seeing what a lovely little toy-woman she
was.

"Don't be impertinent, Master Diamond," said North Wind. "If there's one
thing makes me more angry than another, it is the way you humans judge
things by their size. I am quite as respectable now as I shall be six
hours after this, when I take an East Indiaman by the royals, twist her
round, and push her under. You have no right to address me in such a
fashion."

But as she spoke, the tiny face wore the smile of a great, grand woman.
She was only having her own beautiful fun out of Diamond, and true
woman's fun never hurts.

"But look there!" she resumed. "Do you see a boat with one man in it--a
green and white boat?"

"Yes; quite well."

"That's a poet."

"I thought you said it was a bo-at."

"Stupid pet! Don't you know what a poet is?"

"Why, a thing to sail on the water in."

"Well, perhaps you're not so far wrong. Some poets do carry people over
the sea. But I have no business to talk so much. The man is a poet."

"The boat is a boat," said Diamond.

"Can't you spell?" asked North Wind.

"Not very well."

"So I see. A poet is not a bo-at, as you call it. A poet is a man who is
glad of something, and tries to make other people glad of it too."

"Ah! now I know. Like the man in the sweety-shop."

"Not very. But I see it is no use. I wasn't sent to tell you, and so I
can't tell you. I must be off. Only first just look at the