Mother. "SO YOU'RE THE BOTTOM BOY OF YOUR CLASS. AREN'T YOU ASHAMED OF YOURSELF?"
Peter. "BUT, MOTHER, IT'S NOT MY FAULT. THE BOY WHO'S ALWAYS BOTTOM IS AWAY ILL."
FIRST LINES.
After having spent an hour or so with WORDSWORTH'S sonnets I found my head so full of his sonorous adjuratory music that when in the middle of the night I woke as usual—from three to four is the worst time—my wooing of reluctant sleep took on a new fashion, and instead of repeating verses I made them. But I only once proceeded farther than the first line. Anybody who finds pleasure in poetic pains may add the other thirteen; to me such a task would savour of bad luck. Here, however, are some of my brave Rydalesque beginnings, with titles:—
To the ASSISTANT CONTROLLER of FOOD, wishing him success.
JONES, who wouldst keep potatoes for the poor—
To the Ex-PREMIER, now in very active retirement.
ASQUITH, till recently our honoured head—