So far as I could remember she had not.
“That is good,” said Biggs; “very good, indeed. She probably doesn't identify you with them yet, or she would have thrown herself at your head long ago. We don't want to brag about it—not yet. We want to break it to her gently. We want to be humble and undeserving. You must be a worm, so to speak.”
“Biggs,” I said, with dignity, “I don't propose to be a worm, so to speak.”
“But,” he pleaded, “you must. It's only poetic license.”
That was the first I knew that poets had to be licensed. But I don't wonder they have to be. Even a dog has to be licensed, these days.
“You must be the humble worm,” continued Biggs, “so that later on you can blossom forth into the radiant conquering butterfly.”
I didn't like that any better. I showed Biggs that worms don't blossom. Plants blossom. And butterflies don't conquer. And worms don't turn into butterflies—caterpillars do.
“Very well,” said Biggs, “you must be the humble caterpillar, then.”
I told him I would rather be a caterpillar than a worm any day; and after we had argued for half an hour on whether it was any better to be a caterpillar than to be a worm.
Biggs remembered that it was only metaphorically speaking, after all, and that nothing would be said about worms or caterpillars in the poem, and he got down to work on No. 3. When he had it done, he put his feet on his desk and read it to me. He called it