thought of different ways—and we're going to try them all. Noël's way is poetry. I suppose great poets get paid?"
The lady laughed—she was awfully jolly—and said she was a sort of poet, too, and the long strips of paper were the proofs of her new book of stories. Because before a book is made into a real book with pages and a cover, they sometimes print it all on strips of paper, and the writer make marks on it with a pencil to show the printers what idiots they are not to understand what a writer means to have printed.
We told her all about digging for treasure, and what we meant to do. Then she asked to see Noël's poetry—and he said he didn't like—so she said, "Look here—if you'll show me yours I'll show you some of mine." So he agreed.
The jolly lady read Noël's poetry, and she said she liked it very much. And she thought a great deal of the picture of the Malabar. And then she said, "I write serious poetry like yours myself, too, but I have a piece here that I think you will like because it's about a boy." 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
