A face we loved has vanished,
A voice we adored is now still,
There is no longer any music
In the tinkling rill.
His hat is empty of his head,
His snuff-box has no sneezer,
His cane is idle in the hall
For gone is Ebeneezer.
Within the house we miss him,
Let fall the sorrowing tear,
Yet shall we gather as was our wont
Year after sunny year.
He took such joy in all his friends
That he would have it so;
He left his house to relatives
But none of us need go.
In fact, we're all related,
Sister, friend, and brother;
And in this hour of our grief
We must console each other.
He would not like to have us sad,
Our smiles were once his pleasure
And though we cannot smile at him,
His memory is our treasure.
When he had finished, there was a solemn silence, which was at last
relieved by Mrs. Dodd. "Poetry broke out in my first husband's family,"
she said, "but with sulphur an' molasses an' quinine an' plenty of
wet-sheet packs it was finally cured."
"You do not understand," said the poet, indulgently. "Your aura is not
harmonious with mine."
"Your--what?" demanded Mrs. Dodd, pricking up her ears.
"My aura," explained Mr. Perkins, flushing faintly. "Each individuality
gives out a spiritual vapour, like a cloud, which surrounds one. These are
all in different colours, and the colours change with the thoughts we
think. Black and purple are the gloomy, morose colours; deep blue and the
paler shades show a sombre outlook on life; green is more cheerful, though
still serious; yellow and orange show ambition and envy, and red and white
are emblematic of all the virtues--red of the noble, martial qualities of
man and white of the angelic disposition of woman," he concluded, with a
meaning glance at Elaine, who had been much interested all along.
"What perfectly lovely ideas," she said, in a tone which made Dick's blood
boil. "Are they original with you, Mr. Perkins?"
The poet cleared his throat. "I cannot say that they are wholly original
with me," he admitted, reluctantly, "though of course I have modified and
amplified them to accord with my own individuality. They are doing
wonderful things now in the psychological laboratories. They have a system
of tubes so finely constructed that by breathing into one of them a
person's mental state is actually expressed. An angry person, breathing
into one of these finely organised tubes, makes a decided change in the
colour of the vapour."
"Humph!" snorted Mrs. Dodd, pushing back her chair briskly. "I've been
married seven times, an' I never had to breathe into no tube to let any of
my husbands know when I was mad!"
The poet crimsoned, but otherwise ignored the comment. "If you will come
into the parlour just as twilight is falling," he said to the others, "I
will gladly recite my ode on Spring."
Subdued thanks came from the company, though Harlan excused himself on the
score of his work, and Mrs. Holmes was obliged to put the twins to bed.
When twilight fell, no one was at the rendezvous but Elaine and the poet.
"It is just as well," he said, in a low tone. "There are several under
dear Uncle Ebeneezer's roof who are afflicted with an inharmonious aura.
With yours only am I in full accord. It is a great pleasure to an artist
to feel such beautiful sympathy with his work. Shall I say it now?"
"If you will," murmured Elaine, deeply honoured by acquaintance with a
real poet.
Mr. Perkins drew his chair close to hers, leaned over with an air of
loving confidence, and began:
Spring, oh Spring, dear, gentle Spring,
My poet's garland do I bring
To lay upon thy shining hair
Where rests a wreath of flowers so fair.
There is a music in the brook
Which answers to thy tender look
And in thy eyes there is a spell
Of soft enchantment too sweet to tell.
My heart to thine shall ever turn
For thou hast made my soul to burn
With rapture far beyond----
Elaine screamed, and in a twinkling was on her chair with her skirts
gathered about her. It was only Claudius Tiberius, dressed in Rebecca's
doll's clothes, scooting madly toward the front door, but it served
effectually to break up the entertainment.