“Humph!” snorted Mrs. Dodd, pushing back her chair briskly. “I’ve been married seven times, an’ I never had to breathe into no tube to let any of my husbands know when I was mad!”
The poet crimsoned, but otherwise ignored the comment. “If you will come into the parlour just as twilight is falling,” he said to the others, “I will gladly recite my ode on Spring.”
Subdued thanks came from the company, though Harlan excused himself on the score of his work, and Mrs. Holmes was obliged to put the twins to bed. When twilight fell, no one was at the rendezvous but Elaine and the poet.
“It is just as well,” he said, in a low tone. “There are several under dear Uncle Ebeneezer’s roof who are afflicted with an inharmonious aura. With yours only am I in full accord. It is a great pleasure to an artist to feel such beautiful sympathy with his work. Shall I say it now?”
“If you will,” murmured Elaine, deeply honoured by acquaintance with a real poet.
Mr. Perkins drew his chair close to hers, leaned over with an air of loving confidence, and began:
| Spring, oh Spring, dear, gentle Spring, My poet’s garland do I bring To lay upon thy shining hair Where rests a wreath of flowers so fair. There is a music in the brook Which answers to thy tender look And in thy eyes there is a spell Of soft enchantment too sweet to tell. My heart to thine shall ever turn For thou hast made my soul to burn With rapture far beyond—— |
Elaine screamed, and in a twinkling was on her chair with her skirts gathered about her. It was only Claudius Tiberius, dressed in Rebecca’s doll’s clothes, scooting madly toward the front door, but it served effectually to break up the entertainment.