"And here's a book for you, full of pictures and stories and poems.
I wrote it myself, chiefly for the children of the hospital where
I hope Nanny is going. I don't mean I printed it, you know.
I made it," added Mr. Raymond, wishing Diamond to understand that he
was the author of the book.

"I know what you mean. I make songs myself. They're awfully silly,
but they please baby, and that's all they're meant for."

"Couldn't you let me hear one of them now?" said Mr. Raymond.

"No, sir, I couldn't. I forget them as soon as I've done with them.
Besides, I couldn't make a line without baby on my knee. We make
them together, you know. They're just as much baby's as mine.
It's he that pulls them out of me."

"I suspect the child's a genius," said the poet to himself,
"and that's what makes people think him silly."

Now if any of my child readers want to know what a genius is--
shall I try to tell them, or shall I not? I will give them one
very short answer: it means one who understands things without
any other body telling him what they mean. God makes a few such
now and then to teach the rest of us.

"Do you like riddles?" asked Mr. Raymond, turning over the leaves
of his own book.

"I don't know what a riddle is," said Diamond.