“I believe,” he murmured, “if I could find a woman with an unsatisfied craving for cracknels, I should marry her.”
“What is the tragedy of the aasvogel?” asked the Other sympathetically.
“Oh, simply that there’s no rhyme for it. I thought about it all the time I was dressing—it’s dreadfully bad for one to think whilst one’s dressing—and all lunch-time, and I’m still hung up over it. I feel like those unfortunate automobilists who achieve an unenviable motoriety by coming to a hopeless stop with their cars in the most crowded thoroughfares. I’m afraid I shall have to drop the aasvogel, and it did give such lovely local colour to the thing.”
“Still you’ve got the heedless hartebeest.”
“And quite a decorative bit of moral admonition—when you’ve worried the meaning out—
‘Cease, War, thy bubbling madness that the wine shares,
And bid thy legions turn their swords to mine shares.’
Mine shares seems to fit the case better than ploughshares. There’s lots more about the blessings of Peace, shall I go on reading it?”
“If I must make a choice, I think I would rather they went on with the war.”
REGINALD’S CHOIR TREAT
“Never,” wrote Reginald to his most darling friend, “be a pioneer. It’s the Early Christian that gets the fattest lion.”