The Story Of The Treasure Seekers Chapter 5: Bedtime Story

Hello, beloveds.

Welcome to today's reading, The Story Of The Treasure Seekers by Edith Nesbit.

This is a story about a delightful family living in London who fall upon hard times after their Mother's death. The children come up with lots of ideas to restore the family fortunes to their household and, naturally, get into lots of mishaps along the way.

You can find all the chapters on my profile page under 'playlists'.

Transcript

Hello dear ones,

And welcome to today's reading,

The Story of the Treasure Seekers,

By Edith Nesbitt.

Chapter Five The Poet and the Editor It was not bad sport being in London entirely on our own.

We asked the way to Fleet Street,

Where Father says all the newspaper offices are.

They said straight down on Ludgate Hill,

But it turned out to be quite another way.

At least,

We didn't go straight on.

We got to St Paul's.

Noel would go in,

And we saw where Gordon was buried,

At least the monument anyway.

It is very flat,

Considering what a man he was.

When we came out,

We walked a long way,

And when we asked a policeman,

He said we'd better go back through Smithfield,

And so we did.

They don't burn people anymore there now,

So it was rather quite dull,

Besides being a long way,

And Noel got very,

Very tired.

He's a peaky little chap.

It comes of being a poet,

I think.

We had a bun or two at different shops,

Out of the shillings,

And it was quite late in the afternoon when we got to Fleet Street.

The gas was lighted,

And the electric lights.

There is a jolly bovel sign that comes off and on in different coloured lamps.

We went to the Daily Recorder office,

And we asked to see the editor.

It's a big office,

Very bright,

With brass and mahogany,

And electric lights.

They told us the editor wasn't there,

But at another office.

So we went down a dirty street,

To a very dull-looking place.

There was a man there inside,

In a glass case,

As if he was a museum,

And he told us to write down our names and our business.

So Oswald wrote,

Oswald Bastable,

Noel Bastable.

Business,

Very private,

Indeed.

Then we waited on the stone stairs.

It was very draughty,

And the man in the glass case looked at us,

As if we were the museum,

Instead of him.

We waited a long time,

And then a boy came down,

And said,

The editor can't see you.

Will you please write down your business?

And he laughed,

And I wanted to punch his head.

But Noel said,

Yes,

I'll write it if you give me a pen,

And a sheet of paper,

And an envelope.

The boy said he'd better write by post.

But Noel is a bit pig-headed.

It's his worst fault.

So he said,

No,

I'll write it now.

And I backed him up,

By saying,

Look at the price penny stamps are,

Since the coal strike.

So the boy grinned,

And the man in the glass case gave us pen and paper,

And Noel wrote.

Oswald writes better than he does,

But Noel wanted to do it,

And it took a very long time,

And then it was a bit inky.

Dear Mr.

Editor,

I want you to print my poetry,

And pay me for it,

And I am a friend of Mrs.

Leslie's,

And she is a good poet too.

Your affectionate friend,

Noel Bastable.

He licked the envelope a good deal,

So that the boy shouldn't read it going upstairs,

And he wrote very private on the outside,

And gave the letter to the boy.

I thought it wasn't any good,

But in a minute the grinning boy came back,

And he was quite respectful,

And said,

The editor says,

Please will you step up?

So we stepped up.

There were a lot of stairs and passages,

And a queer sort of humming,

Hammering sound,

And a very,

Very funny smell.

The boy was now very polite,

And said it was the ink we smelt,

And the noise,

And the noise was the printing machines.

After going through a lot of cold passages,

We came to a door.

The boy opened it and let us go in.

There was a large room,

With a big soft blue and red carpet,

And a roaring fire,

Though it was only October,

And a large table,

With drawers,

And littered with papers,

Just like the one in father's study.

A gentleman was sitting at one side of the table,

He had a light moustache and light eyes,

And he looked very young to be an editor,

Not nearly so old as father.

He looked very tired and sleepy,

As if he had got up very early in the morning,

But he was kind,

And we liked him.

Oswald thought he looked clever.

So,

You are Mrs.

Leslie's friends,

He said.

I think so,

Said Noel.

At least she gave us a shilling,

And she wished us good hunting.

Good hunting,

Eh?

Well,

What about this poetry of yours,

Which is the poet?

I can't think how he could have asked.

Oswald is said to be a very manly-looking boy,

For his age.

However,

I thought it would look duffing to be offended.

So I said,

This is my brother Noel,

He is the poet.

Noel had turned quite pale.

He is disgustingly like a girl in some ways.

The editor told us to sit down,

And he took the poems from Noel and began to read them.

Noel got paler and paler.

I really thought he was going to faint,

Like he did when I held his hand under the cold water tap,

After I accidentally cut him with my chisel.

When the editor had read the first poem,

It was the one about the beetle,

He got up and stood with his back to us.

He got up and stood with his back to us.

It was not manners,

But Noel thinks he did it to conceal his emotion,

As they do in books.

He read all the poems,

And then he said,

I like your poetry very much,

Young man.

I'll give you,

Let me see,

How much shall I give you for it?

As much as ever you can,

Said Noel.

You see,

I want a good deal of money to restore the fallen fortunes of the house of Bastable.

The gentleman put on some eyeglasses and looked hard at us,

And then he sat down.

That's a good idea,

Said he.

Tell me how you came to think of it.

And,

I say,

Have you had any tea?

They've just sent out for mine.

He rang a tingly bell,

And the boy brought in a tray with a teapot and a thick cup and saucer,

And he had them fetch another tray for us,

And there we had tea with the editor of the Daily Recorder.

I suppose it was a very proud moment for Noel,

Though I did not think of it until afterwards.

The editor asked us lots of questions,

And we told him a good deal,

Though of course I did not tell a stranger all our reasons for thinking that the family fortunes wanted restoring.

We stayed about half an hour,

And when we were going away,

He said,

I shall print all your poems,

My poet,

And now,

What do you think they are worth?

I don't know,

Noel said.

You see,

I didn't write them to sell.

Then why ever did you write them?

He asked.

Noel said he didn't know.

He supposed,

Just because he wanted to.

Art for art's sake,

Eh?

Said the editor,

And he seemed quite delighted,

As though Noel had said something very clever.

Well,

Would a guinea meet your views?

He asked.

I have read of people being at a loss for words and dumb with emotion,

And I've read of people being turned to stone with astonishment or joy or something,

But I never knew how silly it looked until I saw Noel standing staring at the editor with his mouth wide open.

He went red,

And he went white,

And then he got crimson,

As if you were rubbing more and more crimson lake on a palette.

But he didn't say a word,

And so Oswald had to say,

I should jolly well think so.

So the editor gave Noel a sovereign and a shilling,

And he shook hands with us both,

But he thumped Noel on the back and said,

Buck up,

Old man,

It's your first guinea,

But it won't be your last.

Now go along home,

And in about ten years,

You can bring me some more poetry,

But not before,

You see.

I'm just taking this poetry of yours because I like it very much.

But we don't put poetry in the paper at all.

I shall have to put it in another paper that I know of.

What do you put in your paper?

I asked.

For father always takes the Daily Chronicle,

And I didn't know what the recorder was like.

We chose it because it has a glorious office and a clock outside that light it up.

Oh,

The news and dull articles and things about celebrities.

Now if you know any celebrities.

.

.

Noel asked him what celebrities were.

Oh,

The queen and their princes and people with titles and people who write or sing or act or do something clever or wicked.

I don't know anybody wicked,

Said Oswald,

Wishing that he had known Dick Turpin so as to be able to tell the editor things about him.

But I know someone with a title,

Lord Tottenham,

The mad old professor.

How did you come to know him?

We don't know him to speak to,

But he goes over the heath every day at three,

And he strides along like a giant,

With a black cloak like Lord Tennyson's flying behind him,

And he talks to himself like one o'clock.

What does he say?

The editor had sat down again,

And he was fiddling with a blue pencil.

We only heard him once,

Close enough to understand,

And then he said,

The curse of the country,

Sir,

Ruin and desolation.

And then he went on striding along again,

Hitting at the first bushes as if they were the heads of his enemies.

Excellent descriptive touch,

Said the editor.

Well,

Go on.

Well,

That's all I know about him,

Except that he stops in the middle of heath every day,

And he looks all about him to see if there's anyone about,

And if there isn't,

He takes his collar off.

The editor interrupted,

Which is considered rude,

And said,

You're not romancing.

I beg your pardon,

Said Oswald,

Who drew himself up and said that he was not a liar.

The editor only laughed,

And said romancing and lying were not at all the same,

Only it was important to know what you were playing at.

So,

Oswald accepted his apology,

And went on.

We were hiding among the bushes one day,

And we saw him do it.

He took off his collar,

And he put on a clean one,

And he threw the other one among the first bushes.

We picked it up afterwards,

And it was a beastly paper one.

The editor got up,

And put his hand in his pocket.

That is well worth five shillings.

Would you like to see around the printing office before you go home?

I pocketed my five bob,

And thanked him,

And I said we should like it very much.

He called another gentleman,

And said something that we couldn't hear.

Then he said goodbye again,

And all this time no one hadn't said a word.

But now,

He said,

I've made a poem about you.

It is called Lines to a Noble Editor.

Shall I write it down?

The editor gave him the blue pencil,

And he sat down at the editor's table and wrote,

And it was this he told me afterwards,

As well as he could remember it.

May life's choices' blessings be your lot.

I think you ought to be very blessed,

For you are going to print my poems,

And you may have this one,

As well as the rest.

Thank you,

Said the editor.

I don't think I have ever had a poem addressed to me before.

I shall treasure it,

I assure you.

Then the other gentleman said something about Mayseeners,

And we went off to see the printing office with at least £1.

07 in our pockets.

It was good hunting,

And no mistake.

But he never put Noel's poetry in the daily recorder.

It was quite a long time afterwards that we saw a sort of story thing in a magazine on the station bookstall,

And that kind,

Sleepy-looking editor had written it,

I suppose.

It was not at all amusing.

It said a lot about Noel and me,

Describing us all wrong,

And saying how we had had tea with the editor,

And all Noel's poems were in the story thing.

I think myself that the editor seemed to make a game of them,

But Noel was quite pleased to see them printed,

So that's all right.

It wasn't my poetry anyhow,

I'm glad to say.