“Not at all,” he said. “The suggestion I intended to make was that 'Little drops of water, Little grains of sand, Make the mighty ocean,' etc. But if you wish, we will call it 'Many a Mickle makes a Muckle';” and he read the following poem in a clear, steady voice:-- “How small is a Codliver Capsule, And ten of them put in each box! And the boxes and labels cost something-- No wonder that Ignorance mocks! “How cheap are the Codliver Capsules; Two boxes one dollar will buy! One Capsule costs only a nickel-- The price is considered not high. “Well known are the Codliver Capsules,-- We herald their fame everywhere; And costly is our advertising, But Perkins & Co. do not care. “We spend on the Codliver Capsules, To advertise them, every year, A Million cold Uncle Sam dollars-- I hope you will keep this point clear. “How, then, can the Codliver Capsules, Which bring but a nickel apiece, Yield us on our invested money A single per cent, of increase? “How? We sell of the Codliver Capsules Full four million boxes a year, Which, at fifty cents each, gives a total Of two million dollars, my dear. “You see that the Codliver Capsules, When all advertising is paid, Net us just a million of dollars, From which other costs are defrayed. “Less these, then, the Codliver Capsules Net five hundred thousand of good, Cold, useful American dollars-- A point I would have understood. “And who owns the Codliver Capsules? Two partners in Perkins & Co. One-half of the five hundred thousand To Perkins the Great must then go.” “And the rest of the Codliver Capsules Belong to your servant, my sweet, And these, with my love and devotion, I hasten to lay at your feet.” When I read this pretty poem to Kate, she began laughing at the first line, and I kept my eye on the water-pitcher, in case I should need it again to quell her hysterics; but, as I proceeded with the poem, she became thoughtful. When I had finished, her poet was laughing uproariously; but Kate was silent. “Is it possible,” she said, “that out of these funny little pink things you make for yourself two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year?” “Certainly,” I said. “Didn't you understand that? I'll read the poem again.” “No! no!” she exclaimed, glancing hurriedly at the poet, who was still rolled up with laughter. “Don't do that. I don't like it as well as your other poems. I do not think it is half so funny, and I can't see what Mr. Milward there sees in it that is so humorous.” My face must have fallen; for I had put a great deal of faith in this poem, because of what Biggs had said. Kate saw it.