the Poet. “You cast me under suspicion, to begin with, and it was only fair that I should whack back. I got a valentine myself, and I suspect it was from the same hand. It runs like this:[31]

[31]

“TO THE MINOR POET

“You do not pluck the fairy flowers

That bloom on high Parnassus,

Nor do you gather thistles like

Some of those mystic asses

Who browse about old Helicon

In hope to fill their tummies;

Yours rather are those dandy-lines—

Gilt-topped chrysanthemummies—

Quite pleasant stuff

That ends in fluff—

Yet when they are beholden

Make all the world look golden.”

“Well,” ejaculated the Idiot, “I don’t see what there is in that to make you angry. Seems to me there’s some very nice compliments in that. For instance, your stuff when ’tis

‘beholden

Makes all the world look golden,’

according to your anonymous correspondent. If he’d been vicious he might have said something like this:[32]

[32]

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