"A—I think not, Thomas," said Mr. Homer. "I am of opinion that that would be unadvisable. We will put the single alternative, if you please. I thank you. Now to proceed. Here again."
He selected another shell, breathed on it, and rubbed it on his coat-sleeve.
"Here again is an exquisite—a—emanation from nature's loo—I would rather say from nature's workshop. Observe, Thomas, the rich blending of hues, violet and crimson, in this beautiful object. I trust that we shall be more fortunate this time in the matter of nomenclature. Number 743, Thomas. How is it set down in the book?"
"Hopkins's Blob," said Tommy.
"Dear! dear!" said Mr. Homer. "This is sad, Thomas; this is sad, indeed. Blob! a most unlovely word. And yet"—he paused for a moment—"it rhymes—it rhymes with 'sob.' Do me the favor to pause an instant, Thomas. I have an idea: a—an effluence;—a—an abstraction of the spirit into the realms of poesy."
He was silent, while Tommy Candy watched him with twinkling gray eyes. At first the little gentleman's face wore a look of intense gravity; but soon it lightened. He passed his hand twice or thrice across his brow, and sighed, a long, happy sigh; then he turned a beaming look on his companion.
"I do not know, my young friend," he said, mildly, "whether you have ever given much thought to—a—the Muse; but it may interest you to note the manner in which she occasionally wings her flight. A moment ago, this gracious object"—he waved the shell gently—"was, so far as we are aware, unsung;—a—uncelebrated;—a—lacking its meed of mellifluous expression. Now—but you shall judge, sir. In this brief moment of silence, the following lines crystallized in my brain. Ahem!"
He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and folded his hands meekly; then began to recite in a kind of runic chant:
"The poet-heart doth sigh,
The poet-soul doth sob,
To see a sight
Of beauty bright
Oppressed by name of 'blob'!
"O cacophonic crowd!
O unmellifluous mob!
The poet's lip
Would nectar sip,
But scorns to browse on 'blob'!