"Goes wi' a swing, don't it?"
"Yes."
"Very well then; what more can you want in a verse?"
"But you've got more—much more!"
"What more?"
"A great deal! Atmosphere, for one thing—"
"Why, 't was writ under a hedge," he explained. "And now, friend, p'raps you'll oblige me wi' one o' yourn?"
"Indeed I would rather not," said I, finding myself oddly ill at ease for once.
"Come, fair is fair!" he urged. Hereupon, after some little reflection, I began reciting this, one of my latest efforts:
"Hail, gentle Dian, goddess-queen
Throned 'mid th' Olympian vasts
Majestic, splendidly serene
'Spite Boreas' rageful blasts.
Immaculate, 'midst starry fires
Incalculable thou—"