Starlight Runs along my mind And rolls into a ball of golden silk-- A little skein Of tangled glory; And when I want to get it out again To weave the pattern of a verse or story, It must unwind. It then gets knotted, looped, and all up-jumbled, And long before I get it straight again, unwumbled, To make my verse or story, The interfering sun has risen And burst with passion through my silky prison To melt it down in dew, Like so much spider-gossamer or fairy-cotton. Don't you? _I_ call it rotten! A hushed silence followed. Eyes sought the fire. No one spoke for several minutes. There was a faint laughter, quickly over, but containing sighs. Only Jinny stared straight into her father's face, expecting more, though prepared at any stage to explode with unfeigned admiration. 'But that "don't you" comes in the wrong place,' she objected anxiously. 'It ought to come after "I call it rotten"---' She was determined to make it seem all right. 'No, Jinny,' he answered gravely, 'you must always put others before yourself. It's the first rule in life and literature.' She dropped her eyes to the fire like the others. 'Ah,' she said, 'I see; of course.' The long word blocked her mind like an avalanche, even while she loved it. '_I_ call it rotten,' murmured Monkey under her breath. Jimbo made no audible remark. He crossed his little legs and folded his arms. He was not going to express an opinion until he understood better what it was all about. He began to whisper to his sister. Another longish pause intervened. It was Jinny again who broke it. 'And "wumbled,"' she asked solemnly as though the future of everybody depended on it, 'what _is_ wumbled, really? There's no such thing, is there?--In life, I mean?' She meant to add 'and literature,' but the word stopped her like a hedge. 'It's what happens to a verse or story I lose in that way,' he explained, while Jimbo and Monkey whispered more busily still among themselves about something else. 'The bit of starlight that gets lost and doesn't stick, you see--ineffective.' 'But there _is_ no such word, really,' she urged, determined to clear up all she could. 'It rhymes--that's all.' 'And there _is_ no verse or story,' he replied with a sigh. 'There _was_--that's all.' There was another pause. Jimbo and Monkey looked round suspiciously. They ceased their mysterious whispering. They clearly did not wish the others to know what their confabulation was about. 'That's why your books are wumbled, is it?' she inquired, proud of an explanation that excused him, yet left his glory somehow unimpaired. Her face was a map of puzzled wrinkles. 'Precisely, Jinny. You see, the starlight never gets through properly into my mind. It lies there in a knot. My plot is wumbled. I can't disentangle it quite, though the beauty lies there right enough---'