You are in luck, my boy.

I'd like to stay a month with Temple myself." "Make it a year, Richard," cried St.George, resting his hand affectionately on the inventor's shoulder.

"There isn't a chair in my house that isn't happier when you sit in it.

What have you discovered ?--some new whirligig ?" "No, a poem.

Eighteen to twenty stanzas of glorious melody imprisoned in type." "One of your own ?" laughed St.George--one of his merry vibrating laughs that made everybody happier about him.