“Nothing at all,” said Huddy. “I don’t bother my head about ‘coral roundelay’ or ‘seraph-eyed medicament.’ I haven’t wasted an atom of my gray matter on ‘lowering lunacy’ or ‘agate plot’ or ‘mizzling mystery.’ And all because the poet gave his poem a title. He called the thing ‘Mystery,’ and when I had read it over half a dozen times I concluded that he was right; and if the thing remained a mystery to the author, I don’t see why a reader should expect ever to be able to understand it.”
“Very logical conclusion, Huddy,” said Billy Jones, approvingly. “If a poet chooses a name for his poem, you may make up your mind that there is good reason for it, and certainly the verses you have recited about the ‘coral roundelay’ are properly designated.”
“Well, I’d like to have the title of that yard of rhyme Haarlem Bridge just recited,” put in Dobbs Ferry, scratching his head in bewilderment. “It strikes me as being quite as mysterious as Huddy’s. What the deuce can a man mean by referring to an ‘auburn-haired Sarcophagus’?”
“It wasn’t auburn-haired,” expostulated Haarlem. “It was argent-browed.”
“Old Sarcophagus had nickel-plated eyebrows, Dobby,” cried Tom Snobbe, forgetting himself for a moment.
“Well, who the dickens was old Sarcophagus?” queried Dobby, unappeased.
“He was one of the Egyptian kings, my dear boy,” vouchsafed Billy Jones, exploding internally with mirth. “You’ve heard of Augustus Cæsar, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” said Dobby.
