"It isn't exactly writing poetry that I want done," said Monkey. "It's a very odd job, indeed. You might call it repairing poetry. Do poets ever repair poetry, as well as make it new?"
"I don't know," said Jimmy. "I should think it might be done in some cases."
"Well, now," said Monkey, "I have a broken poem. Some part of every line is gone. But the rhymes are all there, and many of the other words, and most of the beginnings of the lines. I thought a poet would know how to fill up all the blank spaces, and make it just as it was when it was whole."
"I don't know," said Jimmy, doubtfully. "It might be possible to do it, and it might not. I'll do what I can for you. Let me see it, if you have it with you."
Monkey pulled out of his pocket the mutilated poem of Holman's which Ned had pieced together, and, after smoothing it out, handed it to Jimmy.
As Jimmy looked it over, he turned every color which it is possible for an unhappy human countenance to assume, and then gave a heavy groan.
"Where did you get this, Monkey?" said he.
"Found it," said Monkey.
"Found it—impossible!" said Jimmy.
"Upon my word, I did find it, and just in the shape you see it now. But what of it?"