THE BOOK OF BETTY BARBER.
“Let me see,” said Lucy, walking slowly down hill:
“A fair little girl sat under a tree,
Sewing as long as her eyes could see;
A number of rooks flew over her head,
The tall pink foxglove bowed his head.”
I seem to be getting on very well. I’m sure Betty Barber will be pleased.”
“Who is Betty Barber, might I politely inquire?” demanded a very queer-looking brown Lobster, who was leaning over a stile on the other side of the lane.
Mary jumped and looked decidedly frightened.
“Lucy, my dear,” she said, “we must be careful not to go too far.”
“We must go on now,” said Lucy. “Who is this gentleman?”
“If you will excuse me,” said Mary, “I think I will go back. ’Tis the voice of the Lobster.”
“How interesting!” said Lucy.
“Who is Betty Barber?” demanded the Lobster.
“I’ll tell you all about her,” said Lucy, and without waiting to see if Mary were following her, she climbed over the stile.
“Betty Barber wrote a book, you know,” she explained, “and in it she said that no piece of poetry ought to have more than three verses.”
“Don’t see the use of verses myself,” said the Lobster. “Come and talk to the Walrus about it, he has a good many verses.”
“The Walrus?” said Lucy, “I never talked to a Walrus.”
“Oh, he’s quite all right,” said the Lobster, “and we’ll call on the Owl and the Pussy Cat, and a few others.”
Lucy looked rather bewildered.
“The Owl and the Pussy Cat!” she said. “Am I in the Land of Poetry?”
“Ah, here comes the Walrus,” said the Lobster. “I say, old friend,” he went on, “there’s one Betty Barber, who says that no piece of poetry ought to have more than three verses.”
