_J_. We missed you badly at our board last night.
_K_. The loss was mine. I could not get a cab.
Whistling, as you're aware, is banned by law,
And when I went in person on the quest
The streets were void of taxis.
_J_. And to what
Do you attribute this unusual dearth?
_K_. The general rush to Halls of Mirth and Song,
Never so popular. The War goes well,
And London's millions needs must find a way
To vent their exaltation--else they burst.
_J_. But could you not have travelled by the Tube?
_K_. I did essay the Tube, but found it stuffed.
The atmosphere was solid as a cheese,
And I was loath to penetrate the crowd
Lest it should shove me from behind upon
The electric rail.
_J_. Can you account for that?
_K_. I should ascribe it to the harvest moon,
That wakes romance in Metropolitan breasts,
Drawing our young war-workers out of town
To seek the glamour of the country lanes
Under the silvery beams to lovers dear. O.S.
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