ough poetry to make a book?' Dicky asked that, and it
was rather sensible of him, because when Noel came to look there were
only seven of his poems that any of us could understand. There was the
'Wreck of the Malabar', and the poem he wrote when Eliza took us to hear
the Reviving Preacher, and everybody cried, and Father said it must have
been the Preacher's Eloquence. So Noel wrote:

O Eloquence and what art thou?
Ay what art thou? because we cried
And everybody cried inside
When they came out their eyes were red--
And it was your doing Father said.

But Noel told Alice he got the first line and a half from a book a boy
at school was going to write when he had time. Besides this there were
the 'Lines on a Dead Black Beetle that was poisoned'--

O Beetle how I weep to see
Thee lying on thy poor back!
It is so very sad indeed.
You were so shiny and black.
I wish you were alive again
But Eliza says wishing it is nonsense and a shame.

It was very good beetle poison, and there were hundreds of them lying
dead--but Noel only wrote a piece of poetry for one of them. He said he
hadn't time to do them all, and the worst of it was he didn't know which
one he'd written it to--so Alice couldn't bury the beetle and put the
lines on its grave, though she wanted to very much.

Well, it was quite plain that there wasn't enough poetry for a book.

'We might wait a year or two,' said Noel. 'I shall be sure to make some
more some time. I thought of a piece about a fly this morning that knew
condensed milk was sticky.'

'But we want the money _now_,' said Dicky, 'and you can go on writing
just the same. It will come in some time or other.'

'There's poetry in newspapers,' said Alice. 'Down, Pincher! you'll never
be a clever dog, so it's no good trying.'

'Do they pay for it?' Dicky thought of that; he often thinks of things
that are really important, even if they are a little dull.

'I don't know. But I shouldn't think any one would let them print their
poetry without. I wouldn't I know.' That was Dora; but Noel said he
wouldn't mind if he didn't get paid, so long as he saw his poetry
printed and his name at the end.

'We might try, anyway,' said Oswald. He is always willing to give other
people's ideas a fair trial.

So we copied out 'The Wreck of the Malabar' and the other six poems on
drawing-paper--Dora did it, she writes best--and Oswald drew a picture
of the Malaba