“No I do not call you morbid. I call Gracie Harter-Jones morbid.”
“Who is she?”
“We met her at Mrs. Mackinley’s. She says she is perfectly miserable unless she is in a morbid state. She’s written a book called ‘The Purple Shawl of Ceremony.’”
“She must be awfully clever.”
“She’s mad. She revels in being mad. Like ‘the Sun shivered. Earth from its darkest basements rocked and quivered.’”
“Oh go I said and see the swans harping upon the rooftops in the corn. Where is the grey felt hat I saw go down, wrinkled and old to meet the lily-leaf, where where my child the little stick that crushed the wild infernal apple of the pit where where the pearl. Snarling he cried I will not have you bless the tropics sitting in a sulky row nor fling your banners o’er the stately wave; I heard shrill minstrelsies ... that’s all awfully bad; but you can go on forever.”
“I couldn’t. I don’t know how you do it. I think it’s awfully clever. Jan and I roared over your Madeleine Francis Barry letter.”
“You can go on for days.”
“Barry-paroding.”
“You must not wait, nor think of words. If you are in the mood they come more quickly than you could speak or even think; you follow them and the whole effect entertains you. There’s something in it. You never know what is coming and you swing about, as long as you keep the rhythm, all over the world. It refreshes you. Sometimes there are the most beautiful things. And you see all the things so vividly.”