As fair as whitest lily-blows,
As modest as the pansy;
As pure as dew which hides within
Aurora's sun-kissed chalice;
As tender as the primrose sweet—
All this, and more, is Alice."
In inflicting this fragment upon the reader I have not the faintest idea that he can discover any merit in it; I quote it only that a subsequent experience of mine may be more intelligible. When I had composed these wretched lines I became conscious that I had neither pencil nor paper wherewith to preserve them. Should I lose them—my first self-constructed poem? Never! This was not the first time in which I had found it necessary to preserve words by memory alone. So I repeated my ridiculous lines over and over again, until the eloquent feeling of which they were the graceless expression inspired me to accompany my recital with gestures. Six—eight—ten—a dozen—twenty times I repeated these lines, each time with additional emotion and gesture, when a thin voice, very near me, remarked:—
"Ocken Hawwy, you does djust as if you was swimmin'."
Turning, I beheld my nephew, Toddie—how long he had been behind me I had no idea. He looked earnestly into my eyes, and then remarked:—
"Ocken Hawwy, your faysh is wed, djust like a wosy-posy."