No More Learning

Perhaps you're not aware
That, if you don't behave, you'll soon
Be chuckling to another tune--
And so you'd best take care! '

"That's the right way to cure a Sprite
Of such-like goings-on--
But gracious me! It's getting light!
Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night! "
A nod, and he was gone.

[Illustration]


CANTO VII.

Sad Souvenaunce.

[Illustration]

"What's this? " I pondered. "Have I slept?
Or can I have been drinking? "
But soon a gentler feeling crept
Upon me, and I sat and wept
An hour or so, like winking.

"No need for Bones to hurry so! "
I sobbed. "In fact, I doubt
If it was worth his while to go--
And who is Tibbs, I'd like to know,
To make such work about?
"If Tibbs is anything like me,
It's _possible_," I said,
"He won't be over-pleased to be
Dropped in upon at half-past three,
After he's snug in bed.

"And if Bones plagues him anyhow--
Squeaking and all the rest of it,
As he was doing here just now--
_I_ prophesy there'll be a row,
And Tibbs will have the best of it! "

Then, as my tears could never bring
The friendly Phantom back,
It seemed to me the proper thing
To mix another glass, and sing
The following Coronach.

[Illustration: "AND TIBBS WILL HAVE THE BEST OF IT"]

'_And art thou gone, beloved Ghost?
Best of Familiars!
Nay then, farewell, my duckling roast,
Farewell, farewell, my tea and toast,
My meerschaum and cigars! _

'_The hues of life are dull and gray,
The sweets of life insipid,
When thou, my charmer, art away--
Old Brick, or rather, let me say,
Old Parallelepiped! _'

Instead of singing Verse the Third,
I ceased--abruptly, rather:
But, after such a splendid word,
I felt that it would be absurd
To try it any farther.

So with a yawn I went my way
To seek the welcome downy,
And slept, and dreamed till break of day
Of Poltergeist and Fetch and Fay
And Leprechaun and Brownie!

For years I've not been visited
By any kind of Sprite;
Yet still they echo in my head,
Those parting words, so kindly said,
"Old Turnip-top, good-night! "

[Illustration]




ECHOES.


Lady Clara Vere de Vere
Was eight years old, she said:
Every ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread.

She took her little porringer:
Of me she shall not win renown:
For the baseness of its nature shall have strength to drag her down.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid?
There stands the Inspector at thy door:
Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are four. "

"Kind words are more than coronets,"
She said, and wondering looked at me:
"It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to tea.