Half-Hours with Jimmieboy. Bangs John Kendrick

be hasty, Pad," retorted the Pencil. "That's a great deal better than the other. Why, there's one part there with all the lines beginning with capitals, and when that happens it's generally a sign that there's poetry around."

      "There isn't much there, though," said Jimmieboy, a little disappointed by the result. "I guess Pad's right. We'd better give it up."

      "Not yet," pleaded the Pencil. "There's luck in odd numbers, you know. Let's try it just once more."

      "Shall we, Jimmieboy?" asked the Pad.

      "Yes. Let's," assented Jimmieboy, as he dropped off to sleep for the third time.

      This time he must have slept five minutes. When he opened his eyes he saw the Pencil staring blankly at the Pad, on which was written nothing more than this curious looking formula:

      "How aggravating!" said Jimmieboy.

      "Abominable!" ejaculated the Pad.

      "I believe it's a key to what has gone before," said the Pencil, shaking his rubber wisely. "Two and two make four – two and two make four. Ah! I know. You've got to put two and two together to make four. If we put those two leaves of nonsensical words together, maybe we'll have a poem. Let's try."

      "It'll use me up, I'm afraid," sighed the Pad.

      "Oh, no. It won't take more than a half of you," said the Pencil, putting the two leaves on which Jimmieboy had first written together.

      "It looks like a poem," he said, when he had fitted the two together. "Let's see how it reads.

      "I have not seen them since.

      And if my memory's not wrong,

      They both were dressed in chintz,

      With that the couple walked along;"

      "That doesn't mean a blessed thing," said the Pad.

      "It's nonsense," said Jimmieboy.

      "Just wait!" said the Pencil, beginning to read again:

      And straightway change your vest."

      For you to go upstairs with me,

      Replied, "I think it's best

      "If that's the case," the Snickersnee

      And catch the early train."

      I hadn't time to leave the shop

      "My reason for it's plain;

      "I know it," said the Polypop;

      "Since two weeks yesterday."

      You haven't uttered one small cheer

      Oh, Polypop, I say,

      Then quoth the Snickersnee, "See here,

      He didn't pay his fee.

      And as the moon was shining bright,

      To see the Snickersnee,

      The Polypop came down one night

      "Ho!" jeered the Pad. "That's elegant poetry, that is. You might get paid five cents a mile for stuff like that, if you wanted to sell it and had luck."

      "I don't care," said the Pencil. "It rhymes well."

      "Oh, I know what's the matter," said Jimmieboy, gleefully. "Why, of course it's poetry. Read it upside down, and it's all right. It's dream poetry, and dreams always go the other way. Why, it's fine. Just listen:

      "The Polypop came down one night

      To see the Snickersnee,

      And, as the moon was shining bright,

      He didn't pay his fee."

      "That is good," said the Pad. "Let me say the next:

      "Then, quoth the Snickersnee, 'See here,

      Oh, Polypop, I say,

      You have not uttered one small cheer

      Since two weeks yesterday.'"

      "I thought it would come out right," said the Pencil. "The next two verses are particularly good, too:

      "'I know it,' said the Polypop;

      'My reason for it's plain;

      I hadn't time to leave the shop

      And catch the early train.'

      "'If that's the case,' the Snickersnee

      Replied, 'I think it's best

      For you to go upstairs with me,

      And straightway change your vest.'"

      "Now altogether," cried the Pad, enthusiastically. "One, two, three!" And then they all recited:

      "With that the couple walked along;

      They both were dressed in chintz;

      And if my memory's not wrong,

      I have not seen them since."

      "Hooray!" cried Jimmieboy, as they finished – so loudly that it nearly deafened the Pad, which jumped from his lap and scurried back to the table as fast as it could go.

      "What's that cheer for?" asked papa, looking down into Jimmieboy's face, and grabbing the Pencil, which was on the point of falling to the floor.

      "It's for Dream Poetry," murmured Jimmieboy, getting drowsy again. "I've just dreamed a lot. It's on the Pad."

      "Indeed!" said papa, with a sly wink at mamma. "Let's get the Pad and read it."

      The little fellow straightened up and ran across to the desk, and, grasping the Pad firmly in his hands, handed it to his father to read.

      "H'm!" said papa, staring at the leaf before him. "Blank verse."

      "Read it," said Jimmieboy.

      "I can't to-night, my boy," he answered. "My eyes are too weak for me to see dream writing."

      For between you and me that was the only kind of writing there was on that Pad.

      IV.

      A SUBTERRANEAN MUTINY

      It seemed rather strange that it should have been left there, and yet Jimmieboy was glad that in grading his papa's tennis-court the men had left that bit of flat rock to show up on the surface of the lawn. It had afforded him no end of pleasure since he had first discovered it. As a make-believe island in a raging sea of grass, he had often used it to be cast away upon, but chiefly had he employed it as a vantage ground from which to watch his father and his father's friends at their games of tennis. The rock was just about large enough for the boy to sit upon and pretend that he was umpire, or, as his father said, mascot for his father's opponents, and it rarely happened that a game of tennis was played upon the court that was not witnessed by Jimmieboy seated upon his rocky coigne.

      The strangest experience that Jimmieboy ever had with this bit of stone, however, was one warm afternoon last summer. It was at the drowsy period of the day. The tennis players were indulging in a game, which, to the little onlooker, was unusually dull, and he was on the point of starting off in pursuit of something, it mattered not what, so long as it was interesting enough to keep him awake, when he observed a most peculiar thing about the flat stone. It had unquestionably become transparent! Jimmieboy could see through it, and what he saw was of most unexpected quality.

      "Dear me!" he ejaculated, "how very queer. This rock is made of glass."

      Then he peered down through it, and saw a beautiful marble staircase running down into the earth, at the foot of which was a great door that looked as though it was made of silver, and the key was of gold. At the sides of the staircase, hanging upon the walls, were pictures of strange little men and women, but unlike the men and women in other pictures, they moved about, and talked, and romped, and seemed to enjoy themselves hugely. Great pictures were they indeed to Jimmieboy's mind, because they were constantly