people!" she said, half to herself. Then she continued, still more
patiently, "Isn't it just as easy to imagine sides as a bottom? Well,
as I was saying, if I write them fast enough to fill it up--I mean if
one should stick, of course--somebody a hundred years from now may
come along and notice one of my poems; and then I shall be Immortal."
And at that a lovely smile crossed Avrillia's face.

Sara stood a long time, thinking. She couldn't help loving Avrillia,
although she knew that Avrillia was not nearly so fond of her as the
Plynck, or Schlorge, or even the Teacup. Yet she would have loved
Avrillia, even if she had not been kind to her at all.

Now she attracted her attention again by timidly touching her dress.

"It--it seems a waste," she murmured. I think probably she was
thinking of the rose-petals rather than of the poems. All those lovely
"rose-leaves"! And she had never seen even one blue one. But Avrillia
was thinking of the poems.

"That's the regular way to do about Poetry," she said, with a pretty
little air of authority. "First, you write it, and then you drop it
over the Verge into Nothing. But it must be very good--otherwise, it
isn't worth while to spend your time on it." But just then the
thermometer went off.

Yes, the thermometer. Well, perhaps you do set the alarm-clock; but
Avrillia was a poetess, and a fairy besides, and she set the
alarm-thermometer. It sounded very pleasant to Sara, like soda-water
running through a straw on a hot afternoon; but Avrillia seemed to
find it rather nerve-racking.