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Updated: May 25, 2025
He paused to allow those wishing to do so to refresh themselves with another look at Uncle Tom, and I found myself musing in some little perplexity. Long association with the members of the Drones has put me pretty well in touch with the various ways in which an overdose of the blushful Hippocrene can take the individual, but I had never seen anyone react quite as Gussie was doing.
Don't you go for to say you ever see'd a ghost!" "Haven't I? What are you whisperin' about, you blushful chap there by the winder?" "I was only remarking sir, 'twere snawin' like the devil." "Is it? Then the devil has been misjudged these eighteen hundred and ninety odd years." "But did you ever see a ghost?" said the little grinning man, pursuing his subject.
Try him on sheep-raising in the Argentine, Jack," murmured Hart. "Wally, this business is developing a very serious side," protested Grant. Hart stretched a long arm for the port decanter. "Come, friend!" he addressed it gravely. "Let us commune! You and I together shall mingle joyous memories of "A draught of the Warm South, The true, the blushful Hippocrene."
Accompanying him was a specimen of the creature known on tennis lawns as "a fourth." He was almost nameless, tall, very young, with the seedlings of a moustache and a space of nude calf between his knickerbockers and his socks. He was very ceremonious, shy, ungainly and blushful. He played a fair-to-middling game; and nothing more need be said of him.
However unpleasant a drunken man may seem at first sight, as soon as one realizes that he has merely been putting away a blushful Hippocrene, one ceases to be angry with him. If Keats or somebody had said of a piece of underdone mutton, "It is the true, the blushful Canterbury," indigestion would carry a more romantic air, and at the third helping one could claim to be a bit of a devil.
Padua is a city set in meadows full of light; it is well spaced, plentifully watered, arcaded, green with gardens. The streets are like cloister-walks; as in Lucca, the plane is the sacred tree, and next to that flag of green on a silver staff, the poplar shows the city blushful in the spring and thrilling all a summer with the memory.
He turned his head so that he might not look at it and moved stealthily around a stone wall toward the woods beyond the garden Marcia's woods, pine woods they were, their floor carpeted with brown needles where he and she had used to go and walk of an afternoon to the rocks by Sweetwater Spring, the source of the stream, they said, which Jerry had named the "blushful Hippocrene," the fountain of the Muses who met there to do Marcia, their goddess, honor.
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