"Not Thackeray at all?" he says, watching me eagerly.
I decide to risk it.
"Oh, but of course! I mean—Thackeray! When I said Meredith I was thinking of the others. But Thackeray—I mean Thackeray is—er—" (I've forgotten the author's name for the moment and go on hastily) "I mean—er—Thackeray, obviously."
He shakes me by the hand. I am his friend.
But this conversation only takes place in my more hopeful moments. In my less hopeful ones I see myself going into the country for quite a long time.
III. SUMMER DAYS
A SONG FOR THE SUMMER
Is it raining? Never mind—
Think how much the birdies love it!
See them in their dozens drawn,
Dancing, to the croquet lawn—
Could our little friends have dined
If there'd been no worms above it?
Is it murky? What of that,
If the Owls are fairly perky?
Just imagine you were one—
Wouldn't you detest the sun?
I'm pretending I'm a Bat,
And I know I like it murky.
Is it chilly? After all,
We must not forget the Poodle.
If the days were really hot,
Could he wear one woolly spot?
Could he even keep his shawl?
No, he'd shave the whole caboodle.