There's a girl away in Lincolnshire, where green is mostly worn,
Who knows all about a novelist, and all about his trade.
And, oh, ye English Novelists, repay her not with scorn,
When she says that by his mother every novelist is made.
If you fail she knows the reason, she can tell it at a glance—
You have had a splendid mother, so you never had a chance.
If your nature is observant, if your nature is intense,
If you track elusive motives through the mazes of the mind;
If you fly o'er plot and passion as a hunter flies a fence,
And leave panting mediocrity a hundred miles behind;