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Updated: July 2, 2025
It was the only poetry-book to be had in the Fourth Junior.
Jean wished Pamela had been there to see the lamps lit in his green eyes. Mrs. M'Cosh's beautiful tea was lost on him: he ate and drank without being aware of it, his eyes feasting all the time on this great new treasure. "I wish," he said at last, "that I could do something for the Honourable and Richard Plantagenet. I only sent her a wee poetry-book. It cost a shilling.
"Upward! Like the gentleman in the poetry-book, he wants to go higher, higher, ever higher " "Aeroplane?" "No, not that way steeplejack." "Painting spires?" "Not only spires, but signs in high places dangerous places-and, you know, Mr. Stone, he told us that day at the Embury house that he didn't climb that he painted signs, and let other people put them up." "Yes; well? What of it?"
Madden, "how should I tell, my precious pet? You talk just like a poetry-book, and how can I answer you unless I was another poetry-book? Come and have your breakfast, do, that's a dear sweet love, and try a new-laid egg. New-laid eggs is good for the spirits, my poppet." Laura Dunbar seated herself in the comfortable arm-chair between the fireplace and the little breakfast-table.
"Oh," said Phyllis, "my heart's thumping like a steam-engine right under my sash, too." "Nonsense," said Peter, "people's hearts aren't under their sashes." "I don't care mine is," said Phyllis. "If you're going to talk like a poetry-book," said Peter, "my heart's in my mouth." "My heart's in my boots if you come to that," said Roberta; "but do come on he'll think we're idiots."
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