"I should think not," said Edred. "Why, it isn't your own poetry at all. It's Felicia M. Hemans'. I'll try." And he got a pencil and paper and try he did, his very hardest, be sure. But there are some things that the best and bravest cannot do. And the thing Edred couldn't do was to make poetry, however bad. He simply couldn't do it, any more than you can fly. It wasn't in him, any more than wings are on you.
"Oh, Mouldiwarp, you said we must
Not have any more magic. But we trust
You won't be hard on us, because Dickie is lost
And we don't know how to find him."
That was the best Edred could do, and I tell it to his credit, he really did feel doubtful whether what he had so slowly and carefully written was indeed genuine poetry. So much so, that he would not show it to Elfrida until she had begged very hard indeed. At about the thirtieth "Do, please! Edred, do!" he gave her the paper. No little girl was ever more polite than Elfrida or less anxious to hurt the feelings of others. But she was also quite truthful, and when Edred said in an ashamed, muffled voice, "Is it all right, do you think?" the best she could find by way of answer was, "I don't know much about poetry. We'll try it."
And they did try it, and nothing happened.
"I knew it was no good," Edred said crossly; "and I've made an ass of myself for nothing."
"Well, I've often made one of myself," said Elfrida comfortingly, "and I will again if you like. But I don't suppose it'll be any more good than yours."
Elfrida frowned fiercely and the feathers on her Indian head-dress quivered with the intensity of her effort.
"Is it coming?" Edred asked in anxious tones, and she nodded distractedly.
"Great Mouldiestwarp, on you we call
To do the greatest magic of all;
To show us how we are to find
Dear Dickie who is lame and kind.
Do this for us, and on our hearts we swore
We'll never ask you for anything more."
"I don't see that it's so much better than mine," said Edred, "and it ought to be swear, not swore."