“Do you think it would be wise to send her a love-letter?” asked One-and-Nine anxiously, “or an Ode,” he suggested, brightening up. “Yes, I’ll write her an Ode--that’s what I’ll do.” “I’m afraid I don’t quite know what an Ode is,” admitted Boy; “but I suppose it won’t do any harm to send it.” “Oh, an Ode is a kind of Poemish letter that people send when they are in love. I’ve Oded before,” said One-and-Nine, giggling foolishly. “What shall you say?” inquired Boy. “Well, let me see,” said One-and-Nine. “In Oding a lady you have to think of what you most admire in her, and take that as your subject. The last time I Oded, you know, it was about Miss Dolly-girl’s eyes. It began thusly:= ```"'The Rose is red, the Violet’s blue, ```But neither have such eyes as you. ```Yours are the kind I most admire; ```They shut and open with a wire.’= Miss Dolly-girl told me she was much flatterated by the complimentation.” A knock at the door interrupted the conversation at this point, and on Boy’s calling out “Come in,” to their great surprise His Absolute Nothingness the Public Rhymester entered. He was weeping, and carried an enormous pocket-handkerchief, which he put to his eyes every now and then. [Illustration: 0117] “I heard that you were greatly in favour with the young Prince,” he began, in a broken voice, “and thought I would ask you if you would kindly try and have me restored to my position as Court Poet again. I assure you I am not really half as bad as they tried to make out at the Committee Meeting this morning. The fact of the matter was I had just received a great shock, and it had driven all the poetry out of my head. Just as I was starting in the morning my wife told me that the cook had left and the man had called for the taxes. It was enough to upset any one, wasn’t it?” “Well,” said Boy, who was a kind-hearted little fellow, “I don’t know that we can do much for you, but I will certainly speak to the Prince on your behalf to-morrow if you wish.” “Oh, thank you! thank you very much, sir,” said the Public Rhymester, brightening up at once, and vainly trying to stuff his handkerchief, which was quite as large as a small table-cloth, into his pocket. “And if I can ever do anything for you, write you a Valentine, you know, or your Epitaph, I shall be only too delighted.” One-and-Nine, who had been sitting bolt upright while this conversation was going on, seemed to be suddenly-struck with a bright inspiration. “Are you an Oder?” he asked abruptly of the Public Rhymester. “An Oder?” repeated he vaguely. “What’s that?” “A person who writes Odes, of course,” replied the Wooden Soldier; “because, if you are, I should be greatly obligated if you would kindly write one for me. I intentionized writing it myself, but I have been considerizing that it would be more properish to have it written by a real Poet.”