“You are—‘Locksley Hall’—and you know it,” retorted the Bibliomaniac.
“Locksley nothing,” said the Idiot. “What I was reciting is not from ‘Locksley Hall’ at all. It’s a little thing of my own that I wrote six years ago called ‘Spring Unsprung.’ It may not contain much delicate sentiment, but it’s got more solid information in it of a valuable kind than you’ll find in ten ‘Locksley Halls’ or a dozen Etiquette Columns in the Lady’s Away From Home Magazine. It has saved a lot of people from pneumonia and other disorders of early spring, I am quite certain, and the only person I ever heard criticise it unfavorably was a doctor I know who said it spoiled his business.”
“I should admire to hear it,” said the Poet. “Can’t you let us have it?”
“Certainly,” replied the Idiot. “It goes on like this:
“In the spring I’ll take you driving, take you driving, Maudy dear,
But I beg of you be careful at this season of the year.
It is true the birds are singing, singing sweetly all their notes,
But you’ll later find them wearing canton-flannel ’round their throats.
It is true the lark doth warble, ‘Spring is here,’ with bird-like fire,
‘All is warmth and all is genial,’ but I fear the lark’s a liar.
All is warmth for fifteen minutes, that is true; but wait awhile,
And you’ll find that April’s weather has not ever changed its style;
And beware of April’s weather, it is pleasant for a spell,
But, like little Johnny’s future, you can’t always sometimes tell.
Often modest little violets, peeping up from out their beds
In the balmy morn by night-time have bad colds within their heads;
And the buttercup and daisy twinkling gayly on the lawn,
Sing by night a different story from their carollings at dawn;
And the blossoms of the morning, hailing spring with joyous frenzy,
When the twilight falls upon them often droop with influenzy.
So, dear Maudy, when we’re driving, put your linen duster on,
And your lovely Easter bonnet, if you wish to, you may don;
But be careful to have with you sundry garments warm and thick:
Woollen gloves, a muff, and ear-tabs, from the ice-box get the pick;
There’s no telling what may happen ere we’ve driven twenty miles,
April flirts with chill December, and is full of other wiles.
Bring your parasol, O Maudy—it is good for tête-à-têtes;
At the same time you would better also bring your hockey skates.
There’s no telling from the noon-tide, with the sun a-shining bright,
Just what kind of winter weather we’ll be up against by night.”
“Referring to the advice,” said Mr. Brief, “that’s good. I don’t think much of the poetry.”
“There was a lot more of it,” said the Idiot, “but it escapes me at the moment. Four lines I do remember, however:
“Pin no faith to weather prophets—all their prophecies are fakes,
Roulette-wheels are plain and simple to the notions April takes.
Keep your children in the nursery—never mind it if they pout—
And, above all, do not let your furnace take an evening out.”
“Well,” said the Poet, “if you’re going to the poets for advice, I presume your rhymes are all right. But I don’t think it is the mission of the poet to teach people common-sense.”
“That’s the trouble with the whole tribe of poets,” said the Idiot. “They think they are licensed to do and say all sorts of things that other people can’t do and say. In a way I agree with you that a poem shouldn’t necessarily be a treatise on etiquette or a sequence of health hints, but it should avoid misleading its readers. Take that fellow who wrote