Horse that never gallops,
Mere bakers horse, half horse
And half mare,
You belong to a baker,
You draw a cart with bread
Down the blank streets.
Growing pale with sorrow
Why not kick up your heels?
Springing on your back
I will tame you,
We will scamper to the prairies
And skin some bears.
That was the poem Mr. Withersq had wrote, he thought of it because of
some cinemas he used to see.
The teacher seazed his head between his hands and beat it madly on his
desk and shreiked very loud.
“Ah,” he gasped as though washing in cold water, “this is immense,
this is a charming poem, ah me, ah me, it is truly wonderful!”
And he wept tears.
The other pupils oped wide their eyes, and heard him, and lept up
crying “Ah yes, charming, wonderful, what forse what words what
pictures what simpelness,” or something like that. Many came and
kissed Mr. Withersq and burst on all sides into sobs. There never was
such a scene. Selia meanwhile sat chewing her handky not knowing what
to make of it though Mr. Withersq sent her a sly wink from time to
time as though to say that her time was yet to come.
The teacher still beating his head on the desk now became devilishly
excited and furiously rang a large hand bell which he drew from
within.
“What is it, what is it?” cried Selia to the glory-smothered
Mr. Withersq.
“God knows,” replyed our hero, “but I think I have done the trick.”
On the wringing of the bell feet were heard to be approaching and many
doors opened in the near distance. The door burst and many clever
poetry teachers of the school followed by their pupils came hurrying
in and rushed at Mr. Withersq where he stood beside the teacher
modestly spottled with sweat and pawing at Selia’s unwilling hand.
“A new poet, a new poet!” they all yelled, dancing with glee around
the desk.
First came a man with scarlet face and flannel suit and spotted tie,
rather after the fashion of those you give slips of paper to at
street corners about the races. He was followed by a class of sturdy
men some like sailors and some very artful looking prinking on their
legs as they came, and all of these spoke bad words.
“That is the limerick class,” wispered the head teacher to Selia.
An absent faced teacher with a lock over his eyes now rushed in
crying: “Where is the lad, where is he that I may press him to me?”
and when with a fine gestur the head teacher pointed to Mr. Withersq
this man rushed to him and hugged him up and so did the limerick chaps
too after that, because the absent teacher was a very great Irish
poet.
Then followed the rhyming class, very young poets these were, and
after them trooped in a class mostly of bitter old fashioned ladys and
a few clericels who wrote poetry deadling with the soul and Sunday.
Then came an image class of more foreign appearance, who were
learning how to say odd things, and their teacher was a Dane from
Denmark. Then came the lot that wrote sonnets which is very tricky
work, who all wore blazers and white trowsers because they had been to
Oxford and their hair though curly was pleasantly soaked in smelly
oils, not like the uncurbed heads of the former poets who had entered.
All these folks came busling in and many were the pleasant and curious
garbs they sported, pleeted trousers, full puffy trousers, thin
trousers tied under the boot, not to mention vegetated wastcoats or no
wastcoats at all with very fancy shirts like ladys blouses, and all
wore or carried hats such as were never I’m sure seen in Dunns, which
is a hat shop.
“This is Mr. Harold Withersq,” now cried the head teacher when they
had all entered, “whom our enemys Emilian Boom and company have chosed
to heap insults on seeing he was a stranger. His unckle Burt is dead
and has left him a good bit of money. And now he has gone and written
a most wonderful poem. Our good sonnet teacher is at this moment
speaking on the phone to the Minister of Education at Buckingham
Palace to ask him if he will have him made our new head poet.”
“Here here,” muttered the gathering, at which the eyes of Mr. Withersq
lighted up and he gave a fresh grip on Selia’s hand.
The sonnet teacher now came from the telephone.
“Well?” asked the head teacher. “What does the minister say?”
“Oh, he’s popped up stairs to ask His Majesty the King please to make
Mr. Withersq head poet. I told him that Mr. Withersquashes unckle Burt
is dead, so I expect it will be all right.” By this he meant that
money talks.
Tinkle, tink, the telephone called out. The sonnet teacher went back
to it.
All the assembly had their ears out for what he said on it.
“Hello? Oh yes, its the school of poetry. Yes. Oh, you say the King
will be very glad to have a fresh poet? That’s good. I see. Goodbye!”
As he put down the hear-piece, a gruff cheer burst from the poets
filling the room. The head teacher held up his hand. Silence followed.
“His Majesty the King says he could well do with a fresh poet,” he
announced, “and I am sure you will all agree that our new friend
Mr. Withersquash is a very suitable one for the job. I therefore here
and now award him the head poet of England. Three cheers for him. Go
it, boys!”
“Ah ah” they screemed. “Hurrah-hurrah-hurrah! That is charming!” All
the young lady poets and all the young gentlemen poets jumped for joy
because the new poet had sprung from their school.
The teachers and classes now drew in a ring round our hero clasping
his Selia. The old lady servant who had opened the door to our heros
now entered bearing a golden hat-box which she presented with a
touching curtsy to the head teacher. He soon whipped off the lid, and
drew forth an object mufled in crinkeld paper.
“Ooh!” breathed all present, sucking in their breaths.
Off came the crinkeld paper, and the bald bearded teacher drew forth a
sweet little crown, all made of leaves, and bending over, slipped it
on top of Mr. Withersquashes head.
“That is until his dear Majesty the King has time to ask him to the
Palace,” said he and kissed him a lot very sloppy and would have kist
Selia but Mr. Withersq said not.
All the crowd had a good clap and were very excited, for you see
Mr. Withersq had wrote the best poem of the top class of the swankiest
school of poetry in Briton and had been made head poet for his trouble
which is how those things are done and they choose a new one every few
years or so when the old ones get stale.
But Mr. Withersq took the bun by laying his littel crown of leaves at
Selia’s feet with a low bow (not wishing to go out in the street with
it on) after which he hung it on one arm, and taking Selia on the
other they walked forth amid the admiring throng waving them a harty
goodbye.