"'_I used to think that you could do_ _Most everything; but now I see_ _You can't, for it appears that you_ _Can't give a creamy cake to me._'" "But I can't write poetry," said Jimmieboy. "Oh, yes you can!" laughed the Imp. "Anybody can. I've written lots of it. I wrote a poem to my papa once which pleased him very much, though he said he was sorry I had discovered what he called his secret." "Have you got it with you?" asked Jimmieboy, very much interested in what the Imp was saying, because he had often thought, as he reflected about the world, that of all the men in it his papa seemed to him to be the very finest, and it was his great wish to grow up to be as like him as possible; and surely if any little boy could, as the Imp had said, write some kind of poetry, he might, after all, follow in the footsteps of his father, whose every production, Jimmieboy's mamma said, was just as nice as it could be. "Yes. I have it here, where I keep everything, in my head. Just glue your ear as tightly as you can to the 'phone and I'll recite it for you. This is it: "_I've watched you, papa, many a day._ _And think I know you pretty well;_ _You've been my chum--at work, at play--_ _You've taught me how to romp and spell._ "_You've taught me how to sing sweet songs;_ _You've taught me how to listen, too;_ _You've taught me rights; you've shown me wrongs;_ _You've made me love the good and true._ "_Sometimes you've punished me, and I_ _Sometimes have wept most grievously_ _That yours should lie the hand whereby_ _The things I wished were kept from me._ "_Sometimes I've thought that you were stern;_ _Sometimes I could not understand_ _Why you should make my poor heart burn_ _By scoldings and by reprimand._ "_Yet as it all comes back, I see_ _My sorrows, though indeed most sore_ _In those dear days they seemed to me,_ _Grieved you at heart by far the more._ "_The frowns that wrinkled up your brow,_ _That grieved your little son erstwhile,_ _As I reflect upon them now,_ _Were always softened by a smile._ "_That shone, dear father, in your eyes;_ _A smile that was but ill concealed,_ _By which the love that in you lies_ _For me, your boy, was e'er revealed._" Here the Imp stopped. "Go on," said Jimmieboy, softly. "Tell me some more." "There isn't any more," replied the Imp. "When I got that far I couldn't write any more, because I kind of got running over. I didn't seem to fit myself exactly. Myself was too big for myself, and so I had to stop and sort of settle down again." "Your papa must have been very much pleased," suggested Jimmieboy. "Yes, he was," said the Imp; "although I noticed a big tear in his eye when I read it to him; but he gave me a great big hug for the poem, and I was glad I'd written it. But you must run along and get that key, for my time is very short, and if we are to see Magnetville and all the wire country we must be off."