"By the saints," he exclaimed, "I've no mind to run amuck of Pegasus! I'll get out of your way. Faith, 'tis the first time I've seen poetry in buckskin of this particular binding," and he wheeled his broncho out, leaving me abreast of the rhymster.
Pierre's lips began to frame some answer to the churchman.
"Have a care, Father," I warned. "You've escaped the broncho; but look out for the poet."
"Save us! What's coming now?" gasped the priest.
"Ha! I have it!" and Pierre turned triumphantly to Father Holland.
"The Lord be praised that poetry's free,
Or you'd bottle it up like a saint's thumb-bone,
That beauty's beauty for eyes that see
Without regard to a priestly gown——"
"Hold on," interrupted Father Holland. "Hold on, Pierre!"
"'Your double-quick Peg
Has a limp of one leg!'
"'Bone' and 'gown' don't fit, Mr. Rhymster."