"Have you brought something to read to us, Cousin Homer?" asked Miss Phœbe, benevolently.
Mr. Homer with alacrity drew a folded paper from his pocket.
"This is—you may be aware, Cousin Phœbe—the anniversary of the birth of the lamented Keats. I always like to pay some tribute to his memory on these occasions, and I have here a slight thing—I tossed it off after breakfast this morning—which I confess I should like to read to you. You know how highly I value your opinion, Cousin Phœbe, and some criticism may suggest itself to you, though I trust that in the main—but you shall judge for yourself."
He cleared his throat, adjusted his spectacles, and began:
"Thoughts suggested by the Anniversary of the Natal Day of the poet Keats."
"Could you find it convenient not to rock, Cousin Homer?" said Miss Phœbe.
"By all means, Cousin Phœbe. I beg your pardon. 'Thoughts'—but I need not repeat the title.
"I asked the Muse if she had one
Thrice-favored son,
Or if some one poetic brother
Appealed to her more than another.
She gazed on me with aspect high,
And tear in eye,
While musically she repeats,
'Keats!'
"She gave me then to understand,
And smilèd bland,
On Helicon the sacred Nine
Occasionally ask bards to dine.
'For most,' she said, 'we do not move,
Though we approve;
For one alone we leave our seats:
"Keats!"'"
There was a silence after the reading of the poem. Mr. Homer, slightly flushed with his own emotions, gazed eagerly at Miss Phœbe, who sat very erect, the tips of her fingers pressed together, her whole air that of a judge about to give sentence. Miss Vesta looked somewhat disturbed, yet she was the first to speak, murmuring softly, "The feeling is very genuine, I am sure, Cousin Homer!" But Miss Phœbe was ready now.