I took Biggs's word for it, and I think he was right; but he had forgotten to tell me that it was a humorous poem, and when Kate laughed over it, I was a little surprised. I don't know that I exactly expected her to weep over it, but to me it seemed to be a rather soulful sort of thing when I read it. I thought there were two or three quite touching lines. But it worked well enough. She and her poet laughed over it; and, as it seemed the right thing to do, I screwed up my face and ha-ha'd a little, too, and it went off very well. Kate told me again that I was a genius, and her poet assured me that he would never have thought of writing a poem anything like it. “Well, now,” said Biggs, when I had reported progress, “we want to keep following this thing right up. System is the whole thing. You have told her how nice she is in No. 1, and given a reason why she is loved in No. 2. What we want to do is to give her in No. 3 a reason why she should like you. Has she ever spoken of Codliver Capsules?” So far as I could remember she had not. “That is good,” said Biggs; “very good, indeed. She probably doesn't identify you with them yet, or she would have thrown herself at your head long ago. We don't want to brag about it--not yet. We want to break it to her gently. We want to be humble and undeserving. You must be a worm, so to speak.” “Biggs,” I said, with dignity, “I don't propose to be a worm, so to speak.” “But,” he pleaded, “you must. It's only poetic license.” That was the first I knew that poets had to be licensed. But I don't wonder they have to be. Even a dog has to be licensed, these days. “You must be the humble worm,” continued Biggs, “so that later on you can blossom forth into the radiant conquering butterfly.” I didn't like that any better. I showed Biggs that worms don't blossom. Plants blossom. And butterflies don't conquer. And worms don't turn into butterflies--caterpillars do. “Very well,” said Biggs, “you must be the humble caterpillar, then.” I told him I would rather be a caterpillar than a worm any day; and after we had argued for half an hour on whether it was any better to be a caterpillar than to be a worm. Biggs remembered that it was only metaphorically speaking, after all, and that nothing would be said about worms or caterpillars in the poem, and he got down to work on No. 3. When he had it done, he put his feet on his desk and read it to me. He called it HUMBLE MERIT “No prince nor poet proud am I, Nor scion of an ancient clan; I cannot place my rank so high-- I'm the Codliver Capsule Man. “No soulful sonnets I indite, Nor do I play the pipes of Pan; In five small words my place I write-- I'm the Codliver Capsule Man. “No soldier bold, with many scars, Nor hacking, slashing partisan; I have not galloped to the wars-- I'm the Codliver Capsule Man.