In a cornér he sat,
Remote from comrades. Resolutely his hand
Clutched a delicious pie. Anon his thumb
From thé pasty depth próduced á curránt.
(Excuse another interruption, but
Observe the beauty of that ultimate line!
With equal ease I might have written it
"Produced a currant from the pasty depth,"
But I—and Milton in his better moments—
Prefer to be original.) In his soul