“Sir Mortimer’s poems of note
Were despised by his lady’s pet goat.
The goat said, ‘Oh pschutt!’
And proceeded to butt
Sir Mortimer into the moat.”
“Now, William, it’s up to you,” said the Poet, as his sister, regardless
of her fluffy pink finery, sat down on the floor and shrieked.
But already the goat, looking deeply embarrassed, was trotting off
toward the barn.
“That settles it,” said the Poet solemnly. “I am ordained Poet of the
People.”
Galatea got up, gurgling, and rested her flushed cheek on her brother’s
collar.
“George, you’re the most delicious old thing ever created.”
He held her off, regarding her curiously.
“All in pink? Nothing like pink to show dirt. Wherefore all this
regardlessness of expense, Galatea?”
She took a letter from her bosom and gave it to him.
“It’s from Arthur. It came in the morning mail. I didn’t want to disturb
you—and William—in your literary labors. You’d better read it now.”