Half-Hours with Jimmieboy. Bangs John Kendrick

story and went into the nursery to dress for breakfast.

      III.

      JIMMIEBOY'S DREAM POETRY

      If there is anything in the world that Jimmieboy likes better than custard and choo-choo cars, it is to snuggle down in his papa's lap about bedtime and pretend to keep awake. It doesn't matter at all how tired he is, or how late bedtime may on special occasions be delayed, he is never ready to be undressed and "filed away for the night," as his Uncle Periwinkle puts it.

      It was just this way the other night. He was as sleepy as he possibly could be. The sandman had left enough sand in his eyes, or so it seemed to Jimmieboy, to start a respectable sea-beach, and he really felt as if all he needed to make a summer resort of himself was a big hotel, a band of music, and an ocean. But in spite of all this he didn't want to go to bed, and he had apparently made up his mind that he wasn't going to want to go to bed for some time to come; and as his papa was in an unusually indulgent mood, the little fellow was permitted to nestle up close under his left arm and sit there on his lap in the library after dinner, while his mamma read aloud an article in one of the magazines on the subject of dream poetry.

      It was a very interesting article, Jimmieboy thought. The idea of anybody's writing poetry while asleep struck him as being very comical, and he laughed several times in a sleepy sort of way, and then all of a sudden he thought, "Why, if other people can do it, why can't I?"

      "Why?" he answered – he was quite fond of asking himself questions and then answering them – "why? Because you can't write at all. You don't know an H from a D, unless there's a Horse in the picture with the H, and a Donkey with the D. That's why."

      "True; but that's only when I'm awake."

      "Try it and see," whispered the Pencil in his papa's vest pocket. "I'll help, and maybe our old friend the Scratch Pad will help too."

      "That's a good idea," said Jimmieboy, taking the Pencil out of his papa's pocket, and assisting it to climb down to the floor, so that it could run over to the desk and tell the Scratch Pad it was wanted.

      "Don't you lose my pencil," said papa.

      "No, I won't," replied Jimmieboy, his eyes following the Pencil in its rather winding course about the room to where the desk stood.

      "I have to keep out of sight, you know, Jimmieboy," the Pencil said, in a low tone of voice. "Because if I didn't, and your papa saw me walking off, he'd grab hold of me and put me back in his pocket again."

      Suddenly the Pencil disappeared over by the waste-basket, and then Jimmieboy heard him calling, in a loud whisper: "Hi! Pad! Paddy! Pad-dee!"

      "What's wanted?" answered the Pad, crawling over the edge of the desk and peering down at the Pencil, who was by this time hallooing himself hoarse.

      "Jimmieboy and I are going to write some dream poetry, and we want you to help," said the Pencil.

      "Oh, I'm not sleepy," said the Pad.

      "Neither am I," returned the Pencil. "But that needn't make any difference. Jimmieboy, does the sleeping and dreaming, and you and I do the rest."

      "Oh, that's it, eh? Well, then, I don't mind; but – er – how am I ever going to get down there?" asked the Pad. "It's a pretty big jump."

      "That's so," answered the Pencil. "I wouldn't try jumping. Can't the Twine help you?"

      "No. He's all used up."

      "Then I have it," said the Pencil. "Put a little mucilage on your back and slide down. The mucilage will keep you from going too fast."

      "Good scheme," said the Pad, putting the Pencil's suggestion into practice, and finding that it worked beautifully, even if it did make him feel uncomfortably sticky.

      And then, arm in arm, they tip-toed softly across the room and climbed up into Jimmieboy's lap. So quietly did they go that neither Jimmieboy's mamma, nor his papa noticed them at all, as they might have had the conspirators been noisy, although mamma was reading and papa's head was thrown back, so that his eyes rested on the picture moulding.

      "Here we are, Jimmieboy," said the Pad. "Pen here tells me you're going to try a little dream poetry."

      "Yes," said Jimmieboy. "I am, if you two will help."

      "Count on us," said the Pencil. "What do you do first?"

      "I don't exactly know," said Jimmieboy. "But I rather think I take Pencil in my hand, Pad in my lap, and fall asleep."

      "All right," said the Pad, lying flat on his back. "I'm ready."

      "So am I," put in the Pencil, settling down between two of Jimmieboy's fingers.

      "All aboard for sleep," said Jimmieboy, with a smile, and then he fell into a doze. In about two minutes he opened his eyes again, and found both Pad and Pencil in a great state of excitement.

      "Did I write anything?" asked Jimmieboy, in an excited whisper.

      "Yes," said the Pad. "You just covered me up with a senseless mass of words. This isn't any fun."

      "No," said the Pencil. "It's all nonsense. Just see here what you've got."

      Jimmieboy looked anxiously at the Pad, and this is what he saw:

      I seen since,

      memory's      wrong,

      They both    dressed

      couple walked

      And straightway change

      upstairs with me,

      "I think it's

      "If that's the case,"

      catch the early    in."

      to leave the shop,

      for it's pla

      Polypop.

      two weeks yesterday."

      haven't uttered

      Oh, Polypop, I

      ersnee, "See here,

      He didn't pay

      moon was shining bright.

      To see the

      Polypop came down

      "Dear me!" he said. "Why, that doesn't mean anything, does it?"

      "No. There isn't much in dream poetry, I guess," said the Pad. "I'm going back home. Good-by."

      "Oh, don't go," said the Pencil. "Let's try it again – just once more. Eh?"

      "Very well," returned the Pad, good-naturedly, tearing off one of his leaves. "Go ahead, Jimmieboy."

      And Jimmieboy dozed off again.

      "Wake up, wake up!" cried the Pencil in about three minutes. "We've got something this time."

      But they were all disappointed, for, when they looked, all that they could see was this:

      have not them

      And if my not

      were in chintz;

      With that the along;

      your vest."

      For you to go

      Replied best,

      the Snickersnee,

      And tra

      I hadn't time

      "My reason in;

      "I know it," said the

      Since

      You  one small cheer,

      say,

      Then quoth the Snick

      his fee.

      And as the

      Snickersnee,

      The one night,

      "Rubbish!" said the Pad, indignantly. "There's two leaves of myself wasted now on your old dream poetry. I think that's enough. I'm off.