“I believe you would,” he said. “And now, as we haven’t got the golden cloud, let us see how we can get on without it. How shall we conquer that ogre, Monsieur Tortier? What would you suggest, Celestina?”
The child looked into the fire, with eyes wide-open.
“Come, be a good fairy now,” urged Straws, “and tell me.”
“Why don’t you write him a poem?” said Celestina, turning her eyes, bright with excitement, upon him.
“A poem! Non––by Jove, you’re right! An inspiration, my dear! People like to be thought what they are not. They want to be praised for virtues foreign to themselves. The ass wants to masquerade as the lion. ’Tis the law of nature. Now Monsieur Tortier is a Jew; a scrimp; a usurer! Very well, we will celebrate the virtues he hath not in verse and publish the stanza in the Straws’ column. After all, we are only following the example of the historians, and they’re an eminently respectable lot of people. Celestina! You watch the coffee pot, and I’ll grind out the panegyric!”
The child knelt before the fire, but her glance 298 strayed from the steaming spout to the poet’s face, as he sat on the edge of his bed and rapidly scribbled. By the time the bacon was fairly done and the other condiments in the frying-pan had turned to a dark hue, the production was finished and triumphantly waved in mid air by the now hopeful Straws.
“I’ll just read you a part of it, my dear!” he said. “It’s not half bad. But perhaps it would––bore you?” With exaggerated modesty.
“Oh, I just love your poetry!” cried the girl, enthusiastically.
“If everybody were only like you now! Isn’t it too bad you’ve got to grow up and grow wiser? But here’s the refrain. There are six stanzas, but I won’t trouble you with all of them, my dear. One mustn’t drive a willing horse, or a willing auditor.”
And in a voice he endeavored to render melodious, with her rapt glance fixed upon him, Straws read: