Tom nodded, then slouched off; and Harebell watched till he was out of sight.
"What a funny man he is!" she said to herself. Then she settled down on the wall to compose a "spell." From a tiny child on her father's knee she had been accustomed to help him make up rhymes, and after a good deal of frowning and muttering, she evolved the following:—
Beer, beer!
Call me not here!
I shall drink no more,
For it makes me poor.
Beer, beer!
Though you're so near,
I can say good-bye
Without a cry.
So never no more
Will I cross the door
Where beer is sold
Till I'm dead and cold.
Beer, beer, you've spoilt my life,
And now I'll go and get a wife.
She was very pleased with this composition, and climbing down from the wall, she ran indoors, and copied it out in her best handwriting, on the largest sheet of paper she could find. It was shown to Andy, who was awestruck at such a production, as Harebell hoped he would be.
"It's a piece of po'try, Andy. You didn't know I could write po'try, did you? I shall write book upon book when I grow up. It's a kind of spell, you know. To say to yourself when you're passing public-houses and want to have a glass of beer."
"But what on earth do you know about beer?" questioned Andy.
"I have friends," said Harebell in a remote tone.
Andy shook his head slowly backwards and forwards.
"You'll never grow up," he muttered. "Your head be too big for your body."