"If you wish," said the editor, by no means cheerfully.
Miss Prune raised her voice, and commenced:—
"O star-eyed Nightingale,
How nobly thou dost sail
Through the air!
No other bird can compare
With the tuneful song
Which to thee doth belong.
I sit and hear thee sing,
While with tireless wing
Thou dost fly.
And it makes me feel so sad,
It makes me feel so bad,
I know not why,
And I heave so many sighs,
O warbler of the skies!"
"Is there much more?" asked the editor.
"That is the first verse. There are fifteen more," said Prunella.
"Then I think I shall not have time at present to hear you read it all. You may leave it, and I will look it over at my leisure."
"If it suits you," said Prunella, "how much will it be worth?"
"I don't understand."
"How much would you be willing to pay for it?"
"Oh, we never pay for poems," said Mr. Houghton.