"Oh, I have dreamed ambitious dreams, Jimmieboy—ambitious dreams that must now remain only dreams, and never be real. Once, as I lay with a thousand others just like me on the shelf of the little stationery shop where your mother bought me, I dreamed I was sold to a poet—a true poet. Everywhere he went, went I, and every beautiful line he thought of was promptly put down upon one of my leaves with a dainty gold pencil, contact with which was enough to thrill me through and through.
"Here is one of the things I dreamed he wrote upon my leaves:
"'What's the use of tears?
What's the use of moping?
What's the use of fears?
Here's to hoping!
"'Life hath more of joy
Than she hath of weeping.
When grief comes, my boy,
Pleasure's sleeping.
"'Only sleeping, child;
Thou art not forsaken,
Let thy smiles run wild—
She'll awaken!'
"Don't you think that's nice?" queried the Blank-book when he had finished reciting the poem.
"Very nice," said Jimmieboy. "And it's very true, too. Tears aren't any good. Why, they don't even wash your face."
"I know," returned the Blank-book. "Tears are just like rain clouds. A sunny smile can drive 'em away like autumn leaves before a whirl-wind."
"Or a clothes-line full of clothes before an east wind," suggested Jimmieboy.
"Yes; or like buckwheat cakes before a hungry school-boy," put in the Blank-book. "Then that same poet in my dream wrote a verse about his little boy I rather liked. It went this way:
"'Of rats and snails and puppy-dogs' tails
Some man has said boys are made;
But he who spoke to be truthful fails,
If 'twas of my boy 'twas said.
"'For honey, and wine, and sweet sunshine,
And fruits from over the swim,
And everything else that's fair and fine,
Are sure to be found in him.
"'His kisses are nice and sweet as spice,
His smile is richer than cake—
Which, if it were known to rats and mice,
The cheeses they would forsake.
"'His dear little voice is soft and choice,
He giggles all day with glee,
And it makes my heart and soul rejoice,
To think he belongs to me.'"