Abbeychurch, Charlotte M. Yonge [the best ebook reader for android .TXT] 📗

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'HARROGATE,' said he, 'what is to be done with such a word?'

'You can manage it very well if you choose,' said Elizabeth.

'But who could have thought of such a word?' said he, holding up the list to the candle, and scrutinizing the writing. 'Some one with a watery taste, doubtless.'

'You know those things are never divulged,' said Anne.

'FRANCES, too,' continued Rupert, 'there is another impossible case; I will answer for it, Helen wrote that, a reminiscence of dear Dykelands.'

'No, indeed I did not,' said Helen; 'it is FRANCIS, too, I believe.'

'Oh yes,' said Harriet, 'it is FRANCIS, I wrote it, because--do not you remember, Lucy?--Frank Hollis--'

'Well, never mind,' said Elizabeth, who wished to hear no more of that gentleman; 'you may make it whichever you please. And Rupert, pray do not be so idle; put down the list, no one can see it; write your own verses, and tell me the next word to witch.'

'EYES,' said Rupert, 'and then BOUNCE. I do not believe that word is English.'

'BOUNCE, no,' said Katherine; 'it is BONNET, I wrote it myself.'

'Then why do you make your 't' so short?' said Rupert; 'I must give you a writing lesson, Miss Kitty.'

'I must give you a lesson in silence, Mr. Rupert,' said Elizabeth.

'I obey,' said Rupert, with a funny face of submission, and taking up his paper and pencil; but in a minute or two he started up, exclaiming, 'What are they saying about Oxford?' and walked into the next room, intending to take part in the conversation between his father and uncle. Mr. Woodbourne, however, who was no great admirer of Rupert's forwardness, did not shew so much deference to his nephew's opinion as to make him very unwilling to return to the inner drawing-room, when Anne came to tell him that all the poems were finished, and Elizabeth ready to read them aloud.

'So this is all that you have to shew for yourself,' said Elizabeth, holding up a scrap of paper; 'what is all this?'

'A portrait of Miss Merton,' said Rupert; 'do not you see the poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling?'

'Is it?' said Elizabeth; 'I took it for Miss Squeers in the agonies of death, as I see that is the subject of the poem--all that there is of it, at least.

Did ever you see a stupider POEM?
Pray who is the author? I know him, I know him,
He went to school to Mr. Squeers,
Who often made the youth shed TEARS.

Now for the next, which is nearly as short.

I will write a POEM,
Clear and flowing,
It will make you shed TEARS,
And excite your fears.
'Tis about a witch,
Drowned in a ditch,
Your tears come from your EYES.
If you are wise,
Don't make a BOUNCE,
Or you'll tear your flounce,
And upset the sugar JAR,
Which I cannot spare,
I must give some to FRANCIS,
So well he dances;
Sugar canes packed up in LEAVES,
The canes are tied up like wheat sheaves;
Francis wears a scarlet JACKET,
He made a dreadful racket
At HARROGATE,
Because he had to wait,
In a field of BARLEY,
To hold a parley,
About a bone of marrow;
His heart was transfixed by an ARROW,
By a lady in VELVET,
And he was her pet.'

All laughed heartily at this poem, which perhaps diverted them more than a better would have done; Harriet was highly delighted with what she considered their applause, though she knew that of all the rhymes, scarcely three had been found by herself.

'Why, Mr. Merton, what are you doing?' asked Harriet; 'are you writing any more?'

'Oh! I hope he will tell us about Mr. Squeers,' said Katherine.

No one could doubt that the next which Elizabeth read was her own.

I'm afraid you expect a beautiful POEM,
Though I make a long and tedious proem,
But great and dreadful are my fears,
No poem of mine will put you in TEARS.
My genius suggests neither fairy nor witch,
My tales to adorn with cauldrons of pitch,
Alarm the world with fiery EYES,
And from the hero snatch his prize,
Leap out from her den with a terrible BOUNCE,
And on the trembling damsel pounce,
And bottle her up in a close corked JAR,
Or whirl her away in a flaming car;
Then her knight, the brave Sir FRANCIS,
Upon his noble steed advances,
All his armour off he LEAVES,
Preserves alone his polished greaves,
His defence is a buff JACKET,
Nor sword nor axe nor lance can crack it,
It was made at HARROGATE,
By a tailor whose shop had a narrow gate;
The elves attack with spears of BARLEY,
But he drives them off, oh! rarely,
Then they shoot him with an ARROW,
From bow-strings greased with ear-wigs' marrow,
The feathers, moth-wings downy VELVET,
The bow-strings, of the spider's net:
Thousands come, armed in this PATTERN,
Which proves their mistress is no slattern;
Some wear the legs and hoof of PAN,
And some are in the form of man;
But the knight is armed, for in his POCKET
He has a talismanic locket,
Which once belonged to HERCULES,
Who wore it on his bunch of keys;
The fairy comes, quite old and fat,
Mounted upon a monstrous BAT;
Around the knight a web she weaves,
And holds him fast, and there she LEAVES
Sir Francis weeping for his charmer,
And longing for his knightly ARMOUR.
But his sword was cast in the self-same forge
As that of the great champion GEORGE;
Thus he defies the witch's ARMY,
He breaks his bands; 'Ye elves, beware me,
I fear not your LEVIATHAN,
No spells can stop a desperate man.'
Away in terror flies the REAR-GUARD,
He seizes on the witch abhorred,
Confines her in a COCKLE SHELL,
And breaks all her enchantments fell,
Catches her principal LIEUTENANT,
Makes him of a split pine the tenant;
Carries away the lady, nimble,
As e'er Miss Merton plied her THIMBLE;
Oh! this story would your frowns unbend.
Could I tell it to the END.

'Oh!' said Rupert, glad to seize an opportunity of retaliating upon Elizabeth; 'I give you credit; a very ingenious compound of Thalaba, Pigwiggin, and the Tempest, and the circumstance of the witch whirling away the lady is something new.'

'No, it is not,' said Elizabeth; 'it is the beginning of the story of the Palace of Truth, in the Veillees du Chateau. I only professed to conglomerate the words, not to pass off my story as a regular old traditional legend.' 'Well, well,' said Rupert; 'go on; have you only two more?'

'Only two,' said Elizabeth; 'Kate and Lucy behaved as shabbily as you did. Helen, I believe you must read yours. I can never read your writing readily, and besides, I am growing hoarse.'

Helen obeyed.

How hard it is to write a POEM,
Graceful and witty, plain and clear,
Harder than ploughing--'tis, or sowing,
So hard that I should shed a TEAR.

Did I not know the highest pitch
Of merit, in the poet's EYES
Is but to laugh, a height to WHICH
'Tis not so hard for me to rise.

For badness soon is gained, forth BOUNCE
My rhymes such as they are;
Good critics, on my lines don't pounce,
Though on the ear they JAR.

I've had a letter from dear FRANCES,
Who says, through the light plane tree LEAVES,
Upon the lawn the sun-beam glances,
The wheat is bound up in its sheaves

By Richard, in the fustian JACKET
His mistress bought at HARROGATE,
And up in lofty ricks they stack it,
There for the threshing will it wait.

Then will they turn to fields of BARLEY,
Bearded and barbed with many an ARROW,
Just where the fertile soil is marly,
And in the spring was used the harrow.

Drawn by the steeds in coats of VELVET,
Old Steady, Jack, and Slattern,
Their manes well combed, and black as jet,
Their tails in the same PATTERN.

While Richard's son, with pipe of PAN,