class="x-ebookmaker-pageno" title="[Pg 41]"/>

"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. Good-by."

"Don't 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: