“And yet you hear it everywhere that the classic poets are not appreciated nowadays.”
The girl, still laughing, joined her brother on the veranda. She was all in pink—fluffy pink, with a fluffy pink thing flapping above her mahogany tresses, producing an effect impossible to describe, fatal to another woman, in her case charming. The goat put his forefeet on the veranda and seemed to nod his approval.
“William,” said the Poet, “you have given me an idea—an idea which may influence my whole career.”
“Why not?” commented Galatea. “Haven’t you and I been duly initiated as members of the firm of Bos, Equus and Co.? Aren’t all our interests mutual?” And again she laughed.
“I have long been undecided,” resumed the Poet, “as to whether my muse is classical and for the few, or modern and for the many; or, indeed, whether I should not give up poetry for the plough. William, it shall be for you to decide. I will now compose something for the masses. If you accept it instantly, as you have accepted my Horatian Odes—not for publication, it is true, but—er—but for purposes best known to yourself, I shall at once take steps to become an honest husbandman. If, however, you decline what I am about to offer you, I shall consider myself a properly ordained Poet of the People, and shall act accordingly. William, a grave responsibility rests upon your discrimination.”
The goat nodded with an intelligent expression, his venerable beard sweeping the floor.
“O George, how perfectly absurd!” laughed Galatea.
The Poet scribbled on his pad for a couple of minutes, tore off the sheet, and offered it to William. The goat sniffed at it, and appeared doubtful.
“You are quite right, William. Others have found my handwriting illegible. I will read it to you.”
The Poet read:—