At dinner-time, Mr. Perkins drew a rolled manuscript, tied with a black ribbon, from his breast pocket, and, without preliminary, proceeded to read as follows:
TO THE MEMORY OF EBENEEZER JUDSON
|
A face we loved has vanished,
A voice we adored is now still,
There is no longer any music
In the tinkling rill. His hat is empty of his head, His snuff-box has no sneezer, His cane is idle in the hall For gone is Ebeneezer. Within the house we miss him, Let fall the sorrowing tear, Yet shall we gather as was our wont Year after sunny year. He took such joy in all his friends That he would have it so; He left his house to relatives But none of us need go. In fact, we’re all related, Sister, friend, and brother; And in this hour of our grief We must console each other. He would not like to have us sad, Our smiles were once his pleasure And though we cannot smile at him, His memory is our treasure. |
When he had finished, there was a solemn silence, which was at last relieved by Mrs. Dodd. “Poetry broke out in my first husband’s family,” she said, “but with sulphur an’ molasses an’ quinine an’ plenty of wet-sheet packs it was finally cured.”
“You do not understand,” said the poet, indulgently. “Your aura is not harmonious with mine.”
“Your—what?” demanded Mrs. Dodd, pricking up her ears.
“My aura,” explained Mr. Perkins, flushing faintly. “Each individuality gives out a spiritual vapour, like a cloud, which surrounds one. These are all in different colours, and the colours change with the thoughts we think. Black and purple are the gloomy, morose colours; deep blue and the paler shades show a sombre outlook on life; green is more cheerful, though still serious; yellow and orange show ambition and envy, and red and white are emblematic of all the virtues—red of the noble, martial qualities of man and white of the angelic disposition of woman,” he concluded, with a meaning glance at Elaine, who had been much interested all along.
“What perfectly lovely ideas,” she said, in a tone which made Dick’s blood boil. “Are they original with you, Mr. Perkins?”
The poet cleared his throat. “I cannot say that they are wholly original with me,” he admitted, reluctantly, “though of course I have modified and amplified them to accord with my own individuality. They are doing wonderful things now in the psychological laboratories. They have a system of tubes so finely constructed that by breathing into one of them a person’s mental state is actually expressed. An angry person, breathing into one of these finely organised tubes, makes a decided change in the colour of the vapour.”