"I'm writing a poem on Peace," said Reginald, emerging from a sweeping
operation through a tin of mixed biscuits, in whose depths a macaroon or
two might yet be lurking.
"Something of the kind seems to have been attempted already," said the
Other.
"Oh, I know; but I may never have the chance again. Besides, I've got a
new fountain pen. I don't pretend to have gone on any very original
lines; in writing about Peace the thing is to say what everybody else is
saying, only to say it better. It begins with the usual ornithological
emotion--
'When the widgeon westward winging
Heard the folk Vereeniginging,
Heard the shouting and the singing'"--
"Vereeniginging is good, but why widgeon?"
"Why not? Anything that winged westward would naturally begin with a
_w_."
"Need it wing westward?"
"The bird must go somewhere. You wouldn't have it hang around and look
foolish. Then I've brought in something about the heedless hartebeest
galloping over the deserted veldt."
"Of course you know it's practically extinct in those regions?"
"I can't help _that_, it gallops so nicely. I make it have all sorts of
unexpected yearnings--
'Mother, may I go and maffick,
Tear around and hinder traffic?'
Of course you'll say there would be no traffic worth bothering about on
the bare and sun-scorched veldt, but there's no other word that rhymes
with maffick."
"Seraphic?"
Reginald considered. "It might do, but I've got a lot about angels later
on. You must have angels in a Peace poem; I know dreadfully little about
their habits."
"They can do unexpected things, like the hartebeest."
"Of course. Then I turn on London, the City of Dreadful Nocturnes,
resonant with hymns of joy and thanksgiving--
'And the sleeper, eye unlidding,
Heard a voice for ever bidding
Much farewell to Dolly Gray;
Turning weary on his truckle-
Bed he heard the honey-suckle
Lauded in apiarian lay.'