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232 "I can't," said Elfrida, bursting into tears again; "I cant! So there. I've been trying all the time we've been dressing, and I can only think of—

And I know that's no use."

"I should think not," said Edred. "Why, it isn't your own poetry at all. It's Felicia M. Hemans. I'll try." And he got a pencil and paper and try he did, his very hardest, be sure. But there are some things that the best and bravest cannot do. And the thing Edred couldn't do was to make poetry, however bad. He simply couldn't do it, any more than you can fly. It wasn't in him, any more than wings are on you.

That was the best Edred could do, and I tell it to his credit, he really did feel doubtful whether what he had so slowly and carefully written was indeed genuine poetry. So much so, that he would not show it to Elfrida until she had begged very hard indeed. At about the thirtieth "Do, please! Edred, do!" he gave