'I'll get Ingoldsby,' said Anthea, hastily. 'You turn up the
hearthrug.'

So they traced strange figures on the linoleum, where the hearthrug
had kept it clean. They traced them with chalk that Robert had
nicked from the top of the mathematical master's desk at school.
You know, of course, that it is stealing to take a new stick of
chalk, but it is not wrong to take a broken piece, so long as you
only take one. (I do not know the reason of this rule, nor who
made it.) And they chanted all the gloomiest songs they could think
of. And, of course, nothing happened. So then Anthea said, 'I'm
sure a magic fire ought to be made of sweet-smelling wood, and have
magic gums and essences and things in it.'

'I don't know any sweet-smelling wood, except cedar,' said Robert;
'but I've got some ends of cedar-wood lead pencil.'

So they burned the ends of lead pencil. And still nothing
happened.

'Let's burn some of the eucalyptus oil we have for our colds,' said
Anthea.

And they did. It certainly smelt very strong. And they burned
lumps of camphor out of the big chest. It was very bright, and
made a horrid black smoke, which looked very magical. But still
nothing happened. Then they got some clean tea-cloths from the
dresser drawer in the kitchen, and waved them over the magic
chalk-tracings, and sang 'The Hymn of the Moravian Nuns at
Bethlehem', which is very impressive. And still nothing happened.