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Oh, a wonderful box was Straws' little bedstead cupboard! As Phazma said of it, it contained everything it should not, and nothing it should contain. But that was why it was a poet's box.
Your 'Boy's Kingdom, beginning: "When I was young, I dreamed of knights And dames with silken trains." "Thou shalt have it, mon ami!" And Phazma gaily caught up the refrain, while Straws beat time to the tinkling measures. The last entry in the date-book, or diary, of Barnes seems curiously significant as indicating a knowledge that his end was near.
The count put away his blades as carefully as a mother would deposit her babe in the cradle. "Another page of history, my chicks!" he observed. "Worthy of the song of Pindar!" "Why not Straws or Phazma?" queried the surgeon, looking up from his task. "Would you have the press take up the affair? There are already people who talk of abolishing dueling.
'Tis the only true republic, Phazma; death's Utopia!" "But to think he should have died with those words of the poet on his lips?" "A coincidence!" answered Straws.
Once, only, his lips moved: 'Your mother there! where the play never ends! and it was over." "It is like a romance," said Phazma, finally, at the conclusion of this narration. "Say, rather, reality! The masque is over! In that final sleep Jack Pudding lies with Roscius; the tragedian does not disdain the mummer, and beautiful Columbine, all silver spangles and lace, is company for the clown.
But men are deceivers ever! When they do reach the Songs of Solomon, they pass on to Exodus!" "And leave the fair ones to Lamentations," said Straws, who had caught her last remarks. "Or Revelations!" added Phazma.
Of the toasts drunk to Constance, the manager, poets Straws and Phazma, etc., unfortunately no record remains. Of the recollections of the wiry old lady; the impromptu verse of the rhymsters; the roaring speech of Mr. Barnes; the song and dainty flower dance by Susan and Kate only the bare facts have descended to the chronicler.
The poet sighed. "And you, Phazma; how are you feeling?" "Sober as a judge!" "Then you shall judge of this last couplet," exclaimed Straws quickly. "It has cost me much effort. The editor wanted it. It seemed almost too sad a subject for my halting muse. There are some things which should be sacred even from us, Phazma. But what is to be done when the editor-in-chief commands?
"My own thoughts are poor company. Recite some of your madrigals, that's a good fellow! What a wretched night! These rain-drops are like the pattering feet of the invisible host. Some simple song, Phazma!" "As many as you please!" cried his flattered brother-bard. "What shall it be?" "One of your Rhymes for Children.
"No; to Barnes'!" "Barnes'!" exclaimed his surprised listener. "Yes; he is dead; gone out like the snuff of a candle! Died in harness, before the footlights!" "During the performance!" cried the wondering Phazma. "Why, only this afternoon I met him, apparently hale and hearty, and now you tell me he has paid the debt of nature?" "As we must all pay it," returned Straws.
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