“To write poetry teaches you how to write prose—teaches you the words of the English language, their variety and value. A good prose writer can write poetry, for he is acquainted wi’ words, and can always find the word he wants; but a good poet is not often a good prose writer.”
“How is that, Sir?”
“Because he is satisfied with his own vehicle of expression. He thinks it is the best. I am glad you have begun by writing poetry—but do not stop there.” As he was speaking he folded up the bit of paper in his hand, and put it into his pocketbook. Then he went to speak to Margot.
“Margot,” he said, “what do you think? Christine has been writing a poem, and it is better than might be.”
“Christine has been making up poetry ever since she was a bit bairn. She reads a great deal o’ poetry to me out o’ the books you sent her. Oh, Domine, they hae been a wonderfu’ pleasuring to us baith! Though I never thought I wad live to find my only pleasure in novels and bits o’ poetry. Three or four years ago I wad hae laughed anyone to scorn who said such a thing could happen to Margot Ruleson. ’Deed wad I!”
“God often brings the impossible to pass, and even nourishes us on it. What has Christine been reading to you?”
“She has read to me the doings o’ David Copperfield, and about that puir lad, Oliver Twist. I was greatly ta’en up wi’ the lads. I maist forgot mysel’, listening to their troubles and adventures.”
“Very good, Margot. What is she reading to you now?”
“A book by a Mr. Thackeray. His picture is in the book. It’s what they ca’ a frontispiece. He has a big head, and he isna handsome, but he looks like he could mak’ up a good story.”