Rhyme? And Reason? Part 4

[Ill.u.s.tration: "SCORCHED BOTH HIS SLIPPERS OFF HIS FEET"]

"Well, it _is_ curious, I agree, And sounds perhaps like fibs: But still it's true as true can be-- As sure as your name's Tibbs," said he.

I said "My name's _not_ Tibbs."

"_Not_ Tibbs!" he cried--his tone became A shade or two less hearty-- "Why, no," said I. "My proper name Is Tibbets--" "Tibbets?" "Aye, the same."

"Why, then YOU'RE NOT THE PARTY!"

With that he struck the board a blow That shivered half the gla.s.ses.

"Why couldn't you have told me so Three quarters of an hour ago, You prince of all the a.s.ses?

"To walk four miles through mud and rain, To spend the night in smoking, And then to find that it's in vain-- And I've to do it all again-- It's really _too_ provoking!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"Don't talk!" he cried, as I began To mutter some excuse.

"Who can have patience with a man That's got no more discretion than An idiotic goose?

"To keep me waiting here, instead Of telling me at once That this was not the house!" he said.

"There, that'll do--be off to bed!

Don't gape like that, you dunce!"

"It's very fine to throw the blame On _me_ in such a fashion!

Why didn't you enquire my name The very minute that you came?"

I answered in a pa.s.sion.

"Of course it worries you a bit To come so far on foot-- But how was _I_ to blame for it?"

"Well, well!" said he. "I must admit That isn't badly put.

"And certainly you've given me The best of wine and victual-- Excuse my violence," said he, "But accidents like this, you see, They put one out a little.

"'Twas _my_ fault after all, I find-- Shake hands, old Turnip-top!"

The name was hardly to my mind, But, as no doubt he meant it kind, I let the matter drop.

"Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!

When I am gone, perhaps They'll send you some inferior Sprite, Who'll keep you in a constant fright And spoil your soundest naps.

"Tell him you'll stand no sort of trick; Then, if he leers and chuckles, You just be handy with a stick (Mind that it's pretty hard and thick) And rap him on the knuckles!

"Then carelessly remark 'Old c.o.o.n!

Perhaps you're not aware That, if you don't behave, you'll soon Be chuckling to another tune-- And so you'd best take care!'

"That's the right way to cure a Sprite Of such-like goings-on-- But gracious me! It's getting light!

Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!"

A nod, and he was gone.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CANTO VII.

Sad Souvenaunce.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"What's this?" I pondered. "Have I slept?

Or can I have been drinking?"

But soon a gentler feeling crept Upon me, and I sat and wept An hour or so, like winking.

"No need for Bones to hurry so!"

I sobbed. "In fact, I doubt If it was worth his while to go-- And who is Tibbs, I'd like to know, To make such work about?

"If Tibbs is anything like me, It's _possible_," I said, "He won't be over-pleased to be Dropped in upon at half-past three, After he's snug in bed.

"And if Bones plagues him anyhow-- Squeaking and all the rest of it, As he was doing here just now-- _I_ prophesy there'll be a row, And Tibbs will have the best of it!"

Then, as my tears could never bring The friendly Phantom back, It seemed to me the proper thing To mix another gla.s.s, and sing The following Coronach.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "AND TIBBS WILL HAVE THE BEST OF IT"]

'_And art thou gone, beloved Ghost?

Best of Familiars!

Nay then, farewell, my duckling roast, Farewell, farewell, my tea and toast, My meerschaum and cigars!_

'_The hues of life are dull and gray, The sweets of life insipid, When thou, my charmer, art away-- Old Brick, or rather, let me say, Old Parallelepiped!_'

Instead of singing Verse the Third, I ceased--abruptly, rather: But, after such a splendid word, I felt that it would be absurd To try it any farther.

So with a yawn I went my way To seek the welcome downy, And slept, and dreamed till break of day Of Poltergeist and Fetch and Fay And Leprechaun and Brownie!

For years I've not been visited By any kind of Sprite; Yet still they echo in my head, Those parting words, so kindly said, "Old Turnip-top, good-night!"

[Ill.u.s.tration]

ECHOES.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere Was eight years old, she said: Every ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread.

She took her little porringer: Of me she shall not win renown: For the baseness of its nature shall have strength to drag her down.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid?

There stands the Inspector at thy door: Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are four."

"Kind words are more than coronets,"

She said, and wondering looked at me: "It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to tea."