"That's 'baby,'" explained Margery.
"Yes, I like that baby better than the other one. It's more spread
out. And it's bigger--it's one of the biggest babies I've seen."
"Shall I write some more?"
"Don't you write anything else ever?"
"I like writing 'baby,'" said Margery carelessly. "B-a-b-y."
"Yes, but you can't do much with just that one word. Suppose you
wanted to write to a man at a shop--'Dear Sir,--You never sent me my
boots. Please send them at once, as I want to go out this afternoon.
I am, yours faithfully, Margery'--it would be no good simply putting
'B-a-b-y,' because he wouldn't know what you meant."
"Well, what WOULD it be good putting?"
"Ah, that's the whole art of writing--to know what it would be any
good putting. You want to learn lots and lots of new words, so as to
be ready. Now here's a jolly little one that you ought to meet." I
took the pencil and wrote GOT. "Got. G-o-t, got."
Margery, her elbows on my knee and her chin resting on her hands,
studied the position.
"Yes, that's old 'got,'" she said.
"He's always coming in. When you want to say, 'I've got a bad pain,
so I can't accept your kind invitation'; or when you want to say,
'Excuse more, as I've got to go to bed now'; or quite simply,
'You've got my pencil.'"
"G-o-t, got," said Margery. "G-o-t, got. G-o-t, got."
"With appropriate action it makes a very nice recitation."
"Is THAT a 'g'?" said Margery, busy with the pencil, which she had
snatched from me.
"The gentleman with the tail. You haven't made his tail quite long
enough.... That's better."
Margery retired to her study, charged with an entirely new
inspiration, and wrote her second manifesto. It was this:--