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Larkin wrote to Sir Julius, whom Chelford did not find at home, to ask him for a description of Mark, to ascertain whether he had disguised himself; and Sir Julius wrote to Chelford such an absurd description of poor Mark, in doggrel rhyme so like his odd walk, his great whiskers, and everything. Chelford does not like personalities, but he could not help laughing. Are you ill, darling?
All kinds of notices and orders and regulations and "bills" were posted on the meeting-house, often on the door, where they would greet the eye of all who entered: prohibitions from selling guns and powder to the Indians, notices of town meetings, intentions of marriage, copies of the laws against Sabbath-breaking, messages from the Quakers, warnings of "vandoos" and sales, lists of the town officers, and sometimes scandalous and insulting libels, and libels in verse, which is worse, for our forefathers dearly loved to rhyme on all occasions.
"I had to pay for my oysters by writing a rhyme for the waiter." An anecdote by a dilettante, a gracefully turned plea worthy of M'sieur Bruinrmell. "You know, it grows more and more difficult to obtain employment. My wardrobe is practically gone." He glanced with apparent amusement at his weary-willie makeup. His hand moved tremblingly to his neck.
He had given her all the moral schooling she had ever had and its golden rule was, "Be ye beautiful and generous." Joan was both beautiful and made for giving, "free-hearted" as she might herself have said, Friday's child as the old rhyme has it, and to cry out to her with love, saying, "I want you, Joan," was just, sooner or later, to see her turn and bend her head and hold out her arms.
"'Look here! bursts out old Sabre. 'Look here ! "They shut him up. "'Answer the question, please, Mr. Bright. 'Mr. Sabre led to her first going from me. Mr. Sabre! "Had this Mr. Sabre first approached him in the matter or had he solicited Mr. Sabre's help? 'He came to me! He came to me! Without rhyme, or reason, or cause, or need, or hint, or suggestion he came to me!
How many times, nervous and timid from this motionless silence, I have begun to talk, to repeat words without rhyme or reason, only to make some sound. My voice at those times sounds so strange that I am afraid of that, too. Is there anything more dreadful than talking to one's self in an empty house?
It is interesting to find, however, in this apparently popular mode of "building the rhyme" certainly not the lofty rhyme, for no such crumbling foundation could carry any height of superstructure the elements of the most popular rhythm of the present day; a rhythm admitting of any number of syllables in the line, from four up to twelve, or even more, and demanding only that there shall be not more than four accented syllables in the line.
When I now become retrospectively introspective, I fall into the predicament of the centipede in the rhyme, who got along very smoothly until he was asked which leg came after which, whereupon he became so rattled that he couldn't take a step.
'Twist me, and turn me, and show me the Elf I looked in the water, and saw myself, which I certainly did. What can it mean? The Old Owl knows, as Granny would say; so I shall go back and ask her." "Ask her!" said the Echo. "Didn't I say I should?" said Tommy. "How exasperating you are! It is very strange. Myself certainly does rhyme, and I wonder I did not think of it long ago."
At that the man chanted off in a nasal sing-song, as if he were accustomed to repeating his rhyme: J. D. Matthews is my name, Ohio-r is my nation, Mud Creek is my dwellin' place, And glory is my expectation. "Yes," said Grandma Padgett, removing her glasses, as she did when very much puzzled.