what he wanted it for. The money was put on a blue dish, so
that everyone could see how it got on, and our hearts were full of joy
as we saw how much silver there was among the pennies, and two or three
gold pieces too. I know now how the man feels who holds the plate at the
door in church.

Noel's poetry stall was much more paying than I thought it would be. I
believe nobody really likes poetry, and yet everyone pretends they do,
either so as not to hurt Noel's feelings, or because they think
well-brought-up people ought to like poetry, even Noel's. Of course,
Macaulay and Kipling are different. I don't mind them so much myself.

Noel wrote a lot of new poetry for the bazaar. It took up all his time,
and even then he had not enough new stuff to wrap up all the sugar
almonds in. So he made up with old poetry that he'd done before.
Albert's uncle got one of the new ones, and said it made him a proud
man. It was:

'How noble and good and kind you are
To come to Victor A. Plunkett's Bazaar.
Please buy as much as you can bear,
For the sufferer needs all you can possibly spare.
I know you are sure to take his part,
Because you have such a noble heart.'

Mrs. Leslie got:

'The rose is red, the violet's blue,
The lily's pale, and so are you.
Or would be if you had seen him fall
Off the top of the ladder so tall.
Do buy as much as you can stand,
And lend the poor a helping hand.'

Lord Tottenham, though, only got one of the old ones, and it happened to
be the 'Wreck of the _Malabar_.' He was an admiral once. But he liked
it. He is a nice old gentleman, but people do say he is 'excentric.'

Father got a poem that said:

'Please turn your eyes round in their sockets,
And put both your hands in your pockets;
Your eyes will show you things so gay,
And I hope you'll find enough in your pockets to pay
For the things you buy.
Good-bye!'

And he laughed and seemed pleased; but when Mrs. Morrison, Albert's
mother, got that poem about the black beetle that was poisoned she was
not so pleased, and she said it was horrid, and made her flesh creep.
You know the poem. It says:

'Oh, beetle, how I weep to see
Thee lying on thy poor back:
It is so very sad to see
You were so leggy and black.
I wish you were crawling about alive again,
But many people think this is nonsense and a shame.'

Noel _would_ recite, no matter what we said, and he stood up on a chair,
and ev