the story of the treasure seekers-第6部分

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〃Let's　do　something！〃　and　never　saying　what。'



'We　can't　try　the　advertisement　yet。　　Shall　we　try　rescuing　some

one？'　said　Oswald。　　It　was　his　own　idea；　but　he　didn't　insist　on

doing　it；　though　he　is　next　to　the　eldest；　for　he　knows　it　is　bad

manners　to　make　people　do　what　you　want；　when　they　would　rather

not。



'What　was　Noel's　plan？'　Alice　asked。



'A　Princess　or　a　poetry　book；'　said　Noel　sleepily。　　He　was　lying　on

his　back　on　the　sofa；　kicking　his　legs。　　'Only　I　shall　look　for　the

Princess　all　by　myself。　　But　I'll　let　you　see　her　when　we're

married。'



'Have　you　got　enough　poetry　to　make　a　book？'　Dicky　asked　that；　and

it　was　rather　sensible　of　him；　because　when　Noel　came　to　look　there

were　only　seven　of　his　poems　that　any　of　us　could　understand。　

There　was　the　'Wreck　of　the　Malabar'；　and　the　poem　he　wrote　when

Eliza　took　us　to　hear　the　Reviving　Preacher；　and　everybody　cried；

and　Father　said　it　must　have　been　the　Preacher's　Eloquence。　　So

Noel　wrote：





O　Eloquence　and　what　art　thou？

Ay　what　art　thou？　because　we　cried

And　everybody　cried　inside

When　they　came　out　their　eyes　were　red　…

And　it　was　your　doing　Father　said。





But　Noel　told　Alice　he　got　the　first　line　and　a　half　from　a　book　a

boy　at　school　was　going　to　write　when　he　had　time。　　Besides　this

there　were　the　'Lines　on　a　Dead　Black　Beetle　that　was　poisoned'：





Beetle　how　I　weep　to　see

Thee　lying　on　thy　poor　back！

It　is　so　very　sad　indeed。

You　were　so　shiny　and　black。

I　wish　you　were　alive　again

But　Eliza　says　wishing　it　is　nonsense　and　a　shame。





It　was　very　good　beetle　poison；　and　there　were　hundreds　of　them

lying　dead　…　but　Noel　only　wrote　a　piece　of　poetry　for　one　of　them。



He　said　he　hadn't　time　to　do　them　all；　and　the　worst　of　it　was　he

didn't　know　which　one　he'd　written　it　to　…　so　Alice　couldn't　bury

the　beetle　and　put　the　lines　on　its　grave；　though　she　wanted　to

very　much。



Well；　it　was　quite　plain　that　there　wasn't　enough　poetry　for　a

book。



'We　might　wait　a　year　or　two；'　said　Noel。　　'I　shall　be　sure　to　make

some　more　some　time。　　I　thought　of　a　piece　about　a　fly　this　morning

that　knew　condensed　milk　was　sticky。'

'But　we　want　the　money　now；'　said　Dicky；　'and　you　can　go　on　writing

just　the　same。　　It　will　come　in　some　time　or　other。'



'There's　poetry　in　newspapers；'　said　Alice。　　'Down；　Pincher！　you'll

never　be　a　clever　dog；　so　it's　no　good　trying。'



'Do　they　pay　for　it？'　　Dicky　thought　of　that；　he　often　thinks　of

things　that　are　really　important；　even　if　they　are　a　little　dull。



'I　don't　know。　　But　I　shouldn't　think　any　one　would　let　them　print

their　poetry　without。　　I　wouldn't　I　know。'　　That　was　Dora；　but　Noel

said　he　wouldn't　mind　if　he　didn't　get　paid；　so　long　as　he　saw　his

poetry　printed　and　his　name　at　the　end。



'We　might　try；　anyway；'　said　Oswald。　　He　is　always　willing　to　give

other　people's　ideas　a　fair　trial。



So　we　copied　out　'The　Wreck　of　the　Malabar'　and　the　other　six　poems

on　drawing…paper　…　Dora　did　it；　she　writes　best　…　and　Oswald　drew

a　picture　of　the　Malabar　going　down　with　all　hands。　　It　was　a

full…rigged　schooner；　and　all　the　ropes　and　sails　were　correct；

because　my　cousin　is　in　the　Navy；　and　he　showed　me。



We　thought　a　long　time　whether　we'd　write　a　letter　and　send　it　by

post　with　the　poetry　…　and　Dora　thought　it　would　be　best。　　But　NoEl

said　he　couldn't　bear　not　to　know　at　once　if　the　paper　would　print

the　poetry；　So　we　decided　to　take　it。



I　went　with　Noel；　because　I　am　the　eldest；　and　he　is　not　old　enough

to　go　to　London　by　himself。　　Dicky　said　poetry　was　rot　…　and　he　was

glad　he　hadn't　got　to　make　a　fool　of　himself。　　that　was　because

there　was　not　enough　money　for　him　to　go　with　us。　　H。　O。　couldn't

come　either；　but　he　came　to　the　station　to　see　us　off；　and　waved

his　cap　and　called　out　'Good　hunting！'　as　the　train　started。



There　was　a　lady　in　spectacles　in　the　corner。　　She　was　writing　with

a　pencil　on　the　edges　of　long　strips　of　paper　that　had　print　all

down　them。　　When　the　train　started　she　asked　…



'What　was　that　he　said？'



So　Oswald　answered　…



'It　was　〃Good　hunting〃　…　it's　out　of　the　jungle　book！'

'That's　very　pleasant　to　hear；'　the　lady　said；　'I　am　very　pleased

to　meet　people　who　know　their　jungle　book。　　And　where　are　you　off

to　…　the　Zoological　Gardens　to　look　for　Bagheera？'



We　were　pleased；　too；　to　meet　some　one　who　knew　the　jungle　book。



So　Oswald　said　…



'We　are　going　to　restore　the　fallen　fortunes　of　the　House　of

Bastable　…　and　we　have　all　thought　of　different　ways　…　and　we're

going　to　try　them　all。　　Noel'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　Noel'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　NoEl'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　it　better　than　NoEl's　poetry；　though　I　told　him　I

did　not；　because　he　looked　as　if　he　was　going　to　cry。　　This　was

very　wrong；　for　you　should　always　speak　the　truth；　however　unhappy

it　makes　people。　　And　I　generally　do。　　But　I　did　not　want　him

crying　in　the　railway　carriage。　　The　lady's　piece　of　poetry：





Oh　when　I　wake　up　in　my　bed

And　see　the　sun　all　fat　and　red；

I'm　glad　to　have　another　day

For　all　my　different　kinds　of　play。



There　are　so　many　things　to　do　…

The　things　that　make　a　man　of　you；

If　grown…ups　did　not　get　so　vexed

And　wonder　what　you　will　do　next。



I　often　wonder　whether　they

Ever　made　up　our　kinds　of　play　…

If　they　were　always　good　as　gold

And　only　did　what　they　were　told。



They　like　you　best　to　play　with　tops

And　toys　in　boxes；　bought　in　shops；

They　do　not　even　know　the　names

Of　really　interesting　games。



They　will　not　let　you　play　with　fire

Or　trip　your　sister　up　with　wire；

They　grudge　the　tea…tray　for　a　drum；

Or　booby…traps　when　callers　come。



They　don't　like　fishing；　and　it's　true

You　sometimes　soak　a　suit　or　two：

They　look　on　fireworks；　though　they're　dry；

With　quite　a　disapproving　eye。



They　do　not　understand　the　way

To　get　the　most　out　of　your　day：

They　do　not　know　how　hunger　feels

Nor　what　you　need　between　your　meals。



And　when　you're　sent　to　bed　at　night；

They're　happy；　but　they're　not　polite。

For　through　the　door　you　hear　them　say：

'He's　done　his　mischief　for　the　day！'





She　told　us　a　lot　of　other　pieces　but　I　cannot　remember　them；　and

she　talked　to　us　all　the　way　up；　and　when　we　got　nearly　to　Cannon

Street　she　said　…



'I've　got　two　new　shillings　here！　　Do　you　think　they　would　help　to

smooth　the　path　to　Fame？'



Noel　said；　'Thank　you；'　and　was　going　to　take　the　shilling。　　But

Oswald；　who　always　remembers　what　he　is　told；　said　…



'Thank　you　very　much；　but　Father　told　us　we　ought　never　to　take

anything　from　strangers。'



'That's　a　nasty　one；'　said　the　lady　…　she　didn't　talk　a　bit　like　a

real　lady；　but　more　like　a　jolly　sort　of　grown…up　boy　in　a　dress

and　hat　…　'a　very　nasty　one！　　But　don't　you　think　as　Noel　and　I　are

both　poets　I　might　be　considered　a　sort　of　relation？　　You've　heard

of　brother　poets；　haven't　you？　　Don't　you　think　NoEl　and　I　are　aunt

and　nephew　poets；　or　some　relationship　of　that　kind？'



I　didn't　know　what　to　say；　and　she　went　on　…



'It's　awfully　straight　of　you　to　stick　to　what　your　Father　tells

you；　but　look　here；　you　take　the　shillings；　and　here's　my　card。　

When　you　get　home　tell　your　Father　all　about　it；　and　if　he　says　No；

you　can　just　bring　the　shillings　back　to　me。'



So　we　took　the　shillings；　and　she　shook　hands　with　us　and　said；

'Good…bye；　and　good　hunting！'



We　did　tell　Father　about　it；　and　he　said　it　was　all　right；　and　when

he　looked　at　the　card　he　told　us　we　were　highly　honoured；　for　the

lady　wrote　better　poetry　than　any　other　lady　alive　now。　　We　had

never　heard　of　her；　and　she　seemed　much　too　jolly　for　a　poet。　　Good

old　Kipling！　　We　owe　him　those　two　shillings；　as　well　as　the　jungle

books！





CHAPTER　5

THE　POET　AND　THE　EDITOR







It　was　not　bad　sport　…　being　in　London　entirely　on　our　own　hook。　

We　asked　the　way　to　Fleet　Street；　where　Father　says　all　the

newspaper　offices　are。　　They　said　straight　on　down　Ludgate　Hill　…

but　it　turned　out　to　be　quite　another　way。　　At　least　we　didn't　go

straight　on。



We　got　to　St　Paul's。　　Noel　WOULD　go　in；　and　we　saw　where　Gordon　was

buried　…　at　least　the　monument。　　It　is　very　flat；　considering　what

a　man　he　was。



When　we　came　out　we　walked　a　long　way；　and　when　we　asked　a

policeman　he　said　we'd　better　go　back　through　Smithfield。　　So　we

did。　　They　don't　burn　people　any　more　there　now；　so　it　was　rather

dull；　besides　being　a　long　way；　and　Noel　got　very　tired。　　He's　a

peaky　little　chap；　it　comes　of　being　a　poet；　I　think。　　We　had　a　bun

or　two　at　different　shops　…　out　of　the　shillings　…　and　it　was　quite

late　in　the　afternoon　when　we　got　to　Fleet　Street。　　The　gas　was

lighted　and　the　electric　lights。　　There　is　a　jolly　Bovril　sign　that

comes　off　and　on　in　different　colour