The House of Arden by E. Nesbit (first ebook reader .txt) 📕

told me it the day you went to her with Mrs. Harrison.”

“I’m sure you ought to make it up all yourself. You see, the mole doesn’t come.”

“There isn’t any mole,” said Edred.

“Let’s both think hard. I’m sure I could make poetry⁠—if I knew how to begin.”

“If anyone’s got to make it, it’s me,” said Edred. “You’re not Lord Arden.”

“You’re very unkind,” said Elfrida, and Edred knew she was right.

“I don’t mind trying,” he said, condescendingly; “you make the poetry and I’ll say it.”

Elfrida buried her head in her hands and thought till her forehead felt as large as a mangel-wurzel, and her blood throbbed in it like a church clock ticking.

“Got it yet?” he asked, just as she thought she really had got it.

“Don’t!” said the poet, in agony.

Then there was silence, except for the pigeons and the skylarks, and the mooing of a cow at a distant red-roofed farm.

“Will this do?” she said at last, lifting her head from her hands and her elbows from the grass; there were deep dents and lines on her elbows made by the grass-stalks she had leaned on so long.

“Spit it out,” said Edred.

Thus encouraged, Elfrida said, very slowly and carefully, “ ‘Oh, Mouldiwarp’⁠—I think it would rather be called that than mole, don’t you?⁠—‘Oh, Mouldiwarp, do please come out and show us how to set about it’⁠—that means the treasure. I hope it’ll understand.”

“That’s not poetry,” said Edred.

“Yes, it is, if you say it right on⁠—

“ ‘Oh, Mouldiwarp, do please come out
And show us how to set about
It.’ ”

“There ought to be some more,” said Edred⁠—rather impressed, all the same.

“There is,” said Elfrida. “Oh, wait a minute⁠—I shall remember directly. It⁠—what I mean is, how to find the treasure and make Edred brave and wise and kind.”

“I’m kind enough if it comes to that,” said Lord Arden.

“Oh, I know you are; but poetry has to rhyme⁠—you know it has. I expect poets often have to say what they don’t mean because of that.”

“Well, say it straight through,” said Edred, and Elfrida said, obediently⁠—

“ ‘Oh, Mouldiwarp, do please come out
And show us how to set about
It. What I mean is how to find
The treasure, and make Edred brave and wise and kind.’

I’ll write it down if you’ve got a pencil.”

Edred produced a piece of pink chalk, but he had no paper, so Elfrida had to stretch out her white petticoat, put a big stone on the hem, and hold it out tightly with both hands, while Edred wrote at her dictation.

Then Edred studiously repeated the lines again and again, as he was accustomed to repeat “The Battle of Ivry,” till at last he was able to stand up and say⁠—

“ ‘Oh, Mouldiwarp, do please come out
And show me how to set about
It. What I mean is how to find
The treasure, and make me brave and wise⁠—’

If you don’t mind,” he added.

And instantly there was the white mole.

“What do you want now?” it said very crossly indeed. “And call that poetry?”

“It’s the first I ever made,” said Elfrida, of the hot ears. “Perhaps it’ll be better next time.”

“We want you to do what the spell says,” said Edred.

“Make you brave and wise? That can’t be done all in a minute. That’s a long job, that is,” said the mole viciously.

“Don’t be so cross, dear,” said Elfrida; “and if it’s going to be so long hadn’t you better begin?”

“I ain’t agoin’ to do no more’n my share,” said the mole, somewhat softened though, perhaps by the “dear.” “You tell me what you want, and p’raps I’ll do it.”

“I know what I want,” said Edred, “but I don’t know whether you can do it.”

“Ha!” laughed the mole contemptuously.

“I got it out of a book Elfrida got on my birthday,” Edred said. “The children in it went into the past. I’d like to go into the past⁠—and find that treasure!”

“Choose your period,” said the mole wearily.

“Choose⁠—?”

“Your period. What time you’d like to go back to. If you don’t choose before I’ve counted ten it’s all off. One, two, three, four⁠—”

It counted ten through a blank silence.

“Nine, ten,” it ended. “Oh, very well, den, you’ll have to take your luck, that’s all.”

“Bother!” said Edred. “I couldn’t think of anything except all the dates of all the kings of England all at once.”

“Lucky to know ’em,” said the mole, and so plainly not believing that he did know them that Edred found himself saying under his breath, “William the First, 1066; William the Second, 1087; Henry the First, 1100.”

The mole yawned, which, of course, was very rude of it.

“Don’t be cross, dear,” said Elfrida again; “you help us your own way.”

“Now you’re talking,” said the mole, which, of course, Elfrida knew. “Well, I’ll give you a piece of advice. Don’t you be nasty to each other for a whole day, and then⁠—”

“You needn’t talk,” said Edred, still under his breath.

“Very well,” said the mole, whose ears were sharper than his eyes. “I won’t.”

“Oh, don’t!” sighed Elfrida; “what is it we are to do when we’ve been nice to each other for a whole day?”

“Well, when you’ve done that,” said the mole, “look for the door.”

“What door?” asked Elfrida.

“The door,” said the mole.

“But where is it?” Edred asked.

“In the house it be, of course,” said the mole. “Where else to gracious should it be?”

And it ran with mouse-like quickness across the grass and vanished down what looked like a rabbit-hole.

“Now,” said Elfrida triumphantly, “you’ve got to believe in the mole.”

“Yes,” said Edred, “and you’ve got to be nice to me for a whole day, or it’s no use my believing.”

“Aren’t I generally nice?” the girl pleaded, and her lips trembled.

“Yes,” said her brother. “Yes, Lady Arden; and now I’m going to be nice, too. And where shall we look for the door?”

This problem occupied them till teatime. After tea they decided to paint⁠—with the new paintbox and the beautiful new brushes. Elfrida wanted to paint Mr. Millar’s illustrations in The Amulet, and Edred wanted to paint them, too. This could not be, as