234
MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM."
"Oh," quoth the penman, purring at your praise,
"'Tis fancy all; no particle of fact:
I was poor and threadbare when I wrote that book
'Bliss in the Golden City.' I, at Thebes?
We writers paint out of our heads, you see!"
"Ah, the more wonderful the gift in you,
The more creativeness and godlike craft!"
But I, do I present you with my piece,
It's "What, Sludge? When my sainted mother spoke
The verses Lady Jane Grey last composed
About the rosy bower in the seventh heaven
Where she and Queen Elizabeth keep house,—
You made the raps? 'T was your invention that?
Cur, slave and devil!"—eight fingers and two thumbs
Stuck in my throat!
"'Tis fancy all; no particle of fact:
I was poor and threadbare when I wrote that book
'Bliss in the Golden City.' I, at Thebes?
We writers paint out of our heads, you see!"
"Ah, the more wonderful the gift in you,
The more creativeness and godlike craft!"
But I, do I present you with my piece,
It's "What, Sludge? When my sainted mother spoke
The verses Lady Jane Grey last composed
About the rosy bower in the seventh heaven
Where she and Queen Elizabeth keep house,—
You made the raps? 'T was your invention that?
Cur, slave and devil!"—eight fingers and two thumbs
Stuck in my throat!
Well, if the marks seem gone,
'Tis because stiffish cock-tail, taken in time,
Is better for a bruise than arnica.
'Tis because stiffish cock-tail, taken in time,
Is better for a bruise than arnica.
There, sir! I bear no malice: 'tis n't in me.
I know I acted wrongly: still, I 've tried
What I could say in my excuse,—to show
The devil 's not all devil . . . I don't pretend,
An angel, much less such a gentleman
I know I acted wrongly: still, I 've tried
What I could say in my excuse,—to show
The devil 's not all devil . . . I don't pretend,
An angel, much less such a gentleman
