"Hooray!" cried Jimmieboy, as they finished—so loudly that it nearly deafened the Pad, which jumped from his lap and scurried back to the table as fast as it could go.
"What's that cheer for?" asked papa, looking down into Jimmieboy's face, and grabbing the Pencil, which was on the point of falling to the floor.
"It's for Dream Poetry," murmured Jimmieboy, getting drowsy again. "I've just dreamed a lot. It's on the Pad."
"Indeed!" said papa, with a sly wink at mamma. "Let's get the Pad and read it."
The little fellow straightened up and ran across to the desk, and, grasping the Pad firmly in his hands, handed it to his father to read.
"H'm!" said papa, staring at the leaf before him. "Blank verse."
"Read it," said Jimmieboy.
"I can't to-night, my boy," he answered. "My eyes are too weak for me to see dream writing."
For between you and me that was the only kind of writing there was on that Pad.