"I can't," said Elfrida, bursting into tears again; "I cant! So there. I've been trying all the time we've been dressing, and I can only think of—
"Oh, call dear Dickie back to me,
I cannot play alone;
The summer comes with flower and bee,
Where is dear Dickie gone?
And I know that's no use."
"I should think not," said Edred. "Why, it isn't your own poetry at all. It's Felicia M. Hemans. I'll try." And he got a pencil and paper and try he did, his very hardest, be sure. But there are some things that the best and bravest cannot do. And the thing Edred couldn't do was to make poetry, however bad. He simply couldn't do it, any more than you can fly. It wasn't in him, any more than wings are on you.
"Oh, Mouldiwarp, you said we must
Not have any more magic. But we trust
You won't be hard on us, because Dickie is lost
And we don't know how to find him."
That was the best Edred could do, and I tell it to his credit, he really did feel doubtful whether what he had so slowly and carefully written was indeed genuine poetry. So much so, that he would not show it to Elfrida until she had begged very hard indeed. At about the thirtieth "Do, please! Edred, do!" he gave
