“Sukie, heard of the last new poem?”
“No. What is it?”
“Oh, it’s an epic!—a grand affair—second only to the Iliad!”
“Strange I haven’t heard of it, isn’t it?”
“No, not so very; it hasn’t come out yet.”
“How did you hear of it? Some one been in while I was gone?”
“Yes.”
“Do tell me, what is it about, and who is it by?”
“It’s about a child, I believe—but modesty forbids my mentioning the name
of the author.”
“Ah, you old rogue, I see what you’re driving at!—you’ve been having a
call from the Muse.”
“Rather from some poor vagabond tricked out in her cast-off mantle, you
mean.”
Kate goes and stands behind the high-backed arm-chair, and toys with her
brother’s jetty locks. (Are they not her pride and consolation—those
clustering curls? Not all the flying bullets, and slashing sabres, and
ruthless cannon-balls could rob him of those—no, nor the weary, wasting
sickness that followed the privations and exposure, and left him—blind.)
“Come, now, Wallie, stop joking, and let me have the verses, won’t you?”