"'I'm sad,' said he, 'because A Speeler true I be; And yet, despite my jaws, My wings, and beak, and claws, Despite my manners free, "'Despite my feathers fine, My voice so soft and sweet, My truly fair outline, My very handsome spine, And massive pair of feet, "'In all this world of space-- On foot, on fin, on wing-- From Nature's top to base, There never was a trace Of any such strange thing. "'And it does seem to me-- Indeed it truly does-- 'Tis dreadful, sir, to be, As you can plainly see, A thing that never was!'" "What's a Speeler?" said Jimmieboy. "It isn't anything. There isn't any such thing as a Speeler and that's what made this particular Speeler feel so badly," said the Comet. "I know I'd feel that way myself. It must be dreadful to be something that isn't. I was sorry after I had written that poem and created the poor Speeler because it doesn't seem right to create a thing just for the sake of making it unhappy to please people who like poetry of that kind." "I'm afraid it was a sensible poem," said Jimmieboy. "Because, really, Mr. Comet, I can't understand it." "Well, let me try you on another then, and take away the taste of that one. How do you like this. It's called 'Wobble Doo, the Squaller.' "The Wobble Doo was fond of pie, He also loved peach jam. But what most pleased his eagle eye, Was pickled cakes and ham. "But when, perchance, he got no cake, Jam, ham, or pie at all, He'd sit upon a garden rake, And squall, and squall, and squall. "And as these _never_ came his way, This hero of my rhyme, I really do regret to say, Was squalling all the time." "Your poems are all sad, aren't they?" said Jimmieboy. "Couldn't you have let Wobble Doo have just a little bit of cake and jam?" "No. It was impossible," replied the Comet, sadly, "I couldn't afford it. I did all I could for him in writing the poem. Seems to me that was enough. It brought him glory, and glory is harder to get than cakes and peach jam ever thought of being. Perhaps you'll like this better: "Abadee sollaker hollaker moo, Carraway, sarraway mollaker doo-- Hobledy, gobbledy, sassafras Sam, Taramy, faramy, aramy jam." "I don't understand it at all," said Jimmieboy. "What language is it in?" "One I made up myself," said the Comet, gleefully. "And it's simply fine. I call it the Cometoo language. Nobody knows anything about it except myself, and I haven't mastered it yet--but my! It's the easiest language in the world to write poetry in. All you have to do is to go right ahead and make up words to suit yourself, and finding rhyme is no trouble at all when you do that." "But what's the good of it?" asked Jimmieboy.