"I know a piece of poetry about that," Denny said.
"'Small things are best.
Care and unrest
To wealth and rank are given,
But little things
On little wings—'
Do something or other, I forget what, but it means the same as Oswald was saying about the mermaid."
"What are you going to call it?" asked Noël coming out of a dream.
"Call what?"
"The Free Drinks game.
"'It's a horrid shame
If the Free Drinks game
Doesn't have a name.
You would be to blame
If any one came
And—'"
"Oh, shut up!" remarked Dicky. "You've been making that rot up all the time we've been talking instead of listening properly." Dicky hates poetry. I don't mind it so very much myself, especially Macaulay's and Kipling's and Noël's.
"There was a lot more—'lame' and 'dame' and 'name' and 'game' and things—and now I've forgotten it," Noël said, in gloom.
"Never mind," Alice answered, "it'll come back to you in the silent watches of the night; you see if it doesn't. But really, Noël's right, it ought to have a name."