“And pessimism?” suggested Mr. Stevens, already to protest if that should be the case.
“Wait!” thundered Ariel. “I believe there’s some meaning in this, after all!”
“There isn’t,” said Mrs. Stevens firmly. “If it isn’t the Union Jack, it’s just hen tracks.”
“Nothing of the sort!” said Rabnon. “I see your point, Ariel. As the poem advances, a capital letter is advanced one space in each word up to ‘ME’. That’s all capitals; and then the capitals recede until ‘two’ is all small letters, and ‘2’ is just a numeral. Evidently it’s one of those exotic poems of passion that blow first hot and then cold.”
“‘Scorching kisSes’ does sound pretty hot,” said Mr. Stevens, beginning to take an interest. Whereat Mrs. Stevens had to be forcibly restrained from tearing up the whole Table.
“And look at that first line,” suggested Cherrywold, when the hubbub had subsided. “‘It wAs aA furRy foreSt’. Take that with the second, and if you don’t get just the feeling of kissing the bearded lady of a circus I miss my guess.”
“It means no such thing!” said Han. “I told you it doesn’t mean anything. Just because you may be reminded—”
But by then Mrs. Stevens had gotten out of hand again.
“‘lIttle miCeys’!” she shrieked. “Does that mean ‘little mice’? I’m going home! An Editor’s Table where the bearded lady of a circus is kissed by a man who is frightened by seven mice who bark at him is no place for a lady!”
“That’s a rather involved sentence,” said Rabnon oracularly. “But do you know, I believe Madame Stevens has hit upon the correct interpretation.”