.' She gave it
to us--and so I can copy it down, and I will, for it shows that some
grown-up ladies are not so silly as others. I like it better than Noel's
poetry, though I told him I did not, because he looked as if he was
going to cry. This was very wrong, for you should always speak the
truth, however unhappy it makes people. And I generally do. But I did
not want him crying in the railway carriage. The lady's piece of poetry:

Oh when I wake up in my bed
And see the sun all fat and red,
I'm glad to have another day
For all my different kinds of play.

There are so many things to do--
The things that make a man of you,
If grown-ups did not get so vexed
And wonder what you will do next.

I often wonder whether they
Ever made up our kinds of play--
If they were always good as gold
And only did what they were told.

They like you best to play with tops
And toys in boxes, bought in shops;
They do not even know the names
Of really interesting games.

They will not let you play with fire
Or trip your sister up with wire,
They grudge the tea-tray for a drum,
Or booby-traps when callers come.

They don't like fishing, and it's true
You sometimes soak a suit or two:
They look on fireworks, though they're dry,
With quite a disapproving eye.

They do not understand the way
To get the most out of your day:
They do not know how hunger feels
Nor what you need between your meals.

And when you're sent to bed at night,
They're happy, but they're not polite.
For through the door you hear them say:
'_He's_ done _his_ mischief for the day!'

She told us a lot of other pieces but I cannot remember them, and she
talked to us all the way up, and when we got nearly to Cannon Street she
said--

'I've got two new shillings here! Do you think they would help to smooth
the path to Fame?'

Noel said, 'Thank you,' and was going to take the shilling. But Oswald,
who always remembers what he is told, said--

'Thank you very much, but Father told us we ought never to take anything
from strangers.'

'That's a nasty one,' said the lady--she didn't talk a bit like a real
lady, but more like a jolly sort of grown-up boy in a dress and hat--'a
very nasty one! But don't you think as Noel and I are both poets I might
be considered a sort of relation? You've heard of brother poets, haven't
you? Don't y