“Sir,” said the verger to the priest later in the day, “them mice have been about again. I see two of them at the sacred bread. I wish you would let me set traps.” “Why,” said the priest, “I have already set one.” “And did you catch anything?” asked the verger. “I think so,” said the priest.
XXX
IN FOR A PENNY IN FOR A POUND
THERE was once a beautiful line of poetry who had by an unfortunate accident lodged herself in the brain of an extremely inferior poet. To her great discomfort the line found herself driven to associate with a disorderly mob of worn-out and shabby phrases. Nor was this all. While her companions were for ever being taken out and aired, and on occasion finding their way into the public prints, she remained neglected and disused.
The other lines, who had from the first disliked her, now, not unnaturally, added contempt to their dislike. “The truth is,” they said to her, “that you are not one of us. The rest of us can all point to a long and distinguished ancestry. Everybody knew our parents and knows us. We are welcome wherever we go, and are readily admitted into the best society. But as for you, your birth is wrapt in mystery. Whether it is the fact that the poet is your father is open to question, but at any rate there is no question whatever of the character of the Greek woman your mother. You had better,” they would conclude, “return whence you came, where, among persons of your own kind, you will no doubt be at ease.”
The poet, meanwhile, only dimly aware of his golden visitor, continued to fumble among his ready-for-service shelves. This was the easier for him as all his ideas were of stock size, and were in consequence easily fitted by the poetic slops. But as time went on the poet became more and more acutely aware of something that waited expression—some queer new-shaped Jack o’ lanthorn of a thought that none of his ready-made suits would fit. One after another he took them down, and they seemed incorrigibly stale and shop-soiled. Even the most daring patterns in the earlier Brooke design seemed inadequate, out at the seams and unfresh.
He blamed his liver. Then he blamed his wife, and last—most horrible thought of all—he blamed his inspiration. “I have written myself out,” he cried to the pool of light that the lamp cast on his solitary desk. “This is the end.” He rehearsed in a high tragic voice some of his most notable triumphs, as for example:
“Now that the roses are over
And the last white rose is dead,