Host. Let me see. Yes, now I remember one such effort. I devised a poem, and two lines at the beginning of it and two lines at the end of it came readily into my mind. But I had only written two or three lines when a breeze came up and blew my paper away.
Guest. Lost, like the Sibylline books! Do you remember what the lines were?
Host. Only the first two and the last two, which had been in my mind for some time. Those I put on paper are entirely gone.
Guest. Can you give me the lines and the intervening argument?
Host. The poem began thus:
“We walked in a garden of roses,
Miss Jane, Sir Cupid, and I.”
The story then proceeded to the effect that Sir Cupid and I walked through the narrow alleys side by side, while Miss Jane always flitted some distance in front, and would never stop that I might overtake her. I entreated her to wait for me, but she always laughed, and declined, hurrying on, sometimes picking a white rose, sometimes a red, and always answering, when she spoke at all, that the paths were not wide enough for three. After a good deal of this fruitless chase I became disheartened, and, with my companion, Sir Cupid, left the garden. The poem concluded thus:
“The next time I looked into the garden