there was the bust of a dog in the front yard of the school of poetry and the door was pink.
“you ask,” said harold withersq to selia his love. “for this is a bit of a treat for you,” so she rang the brass bell and got her mouth ready to pop the question to the serving maids. a grand old woman in a white pinny came and opened.
“pray conduct us to your owner,” said selia in a wonderful chic voice. “we have come to join the school.”
the woman showed them into a white hall with two rows of littel coloured pictures painted on glass of chinamen and tigers very bright and instructing hung all down the sides. mr. withersq now puffed himself out 29ready for the encounter. the old lady bobbed on before them down the white hall to a large chamber like a chapel with gold-edged pictures, some of nude in galore, and twenty grown up young people sat in desks in this hall, scribbling on slates under the watching eye of a bald man mounted up on a littel platform at the top. all the bottom on his face was beard and his mouth made you laugh when he talked like looking at a person’s mouth talking upside down. and he had glasses with brown rims and ear-bits very costly and wise looking.
the twenty pupils raised their heads and stared.
mr. withersq stept boldly up to the teacher and laid a pound note on his desk.
“i have been insulted,” he cried waving his arms a little though not much out of respect, “my unckle burt is dead and has left me a good bit. this is my girl selia.”
30 selia gave a bow and muttered pleased to meet you.
“we are seeing life,” mr. withersq went on after this little interruption. “we have been to a party and danced and slept with the very creme of london, baronnesses and what not, and yet not an hour ago i was insulted. the creture that is called boon gave me the bird and my selia too, because he is so proud to be a poet. make me a poet, make my lady a poet too if you can, and i will pay you well and pay them out.”
“that will do,” said the teacher. “you arent allowed to have quarrels before you’ve been printed so you both sit down and see what you can do.”
so they sat down both and had a stare at the others. they were again mostly like the beings at the party, but more younger men very drooping in figgur and unshorn heads, some of 31whom munched drugs out of boxes while they worked, to keep their spirits up.
“they look a bit half-baked,” selia remarked to mr. withersq and drew a frown from the teacher.
“write me now a good poem to the bakers horse” shouted he from his littel platform tossing slates to selia and mr. withersq and all present began to scribble and squeek on the slates at which the good teacher pluckt hairs from his beard and smiled in a nodding sort of way like a grandma. selia and harold gave a sorry look at each other not knowing how to put bakers horses into poetry and thinking up till then that poetry was all rich like creamy cakes with love and nobel roman deaths for the schools they had went to taught nothing else. so they dotted down a few words hoping to pass in the crush.
selia wrote:—
oh horse of the daily baker 32
what brings bread,
i prefer your litel rolls
with hot butter.
have you your blinkers
because of a secret
or to keep the oats ears from your wet eyes
when you munch in your nosebag?
why is that
oh horse?
and left it at that.
the other pupils were scratching away on every side and she began to have douts and very likely as not she ought to have gone to a lower class but the teacher had guest by the air of her hat that she knew more than she did.
“isn’t this a go?” whispered mr. withersq to her. “i cant half write poems, selia, you just wait,” for he guest he had put his foot on the road to success.
33 “how perfect dear harold” she whispred a bit madly for she had made a mess of it herself. “you can indeed shine before the duchesses and perhaps that will do the trick. you wont forget me then will you, dear harold?” for she was if anything even keener than him to get on, and did not want to be left behind, for though she knew how the millions helpt she guest there was more to it than that.
“bring up your slates my poor clods of pupils,” cried the teacher looking vext.
two girls in gowns of patterns like chair covers swooned off, which was very successful and nicely done.
“that’s the emoshun,” a snaky-faced chap whispered behind his hand to selia.
another chap who might have been own brother to the nawseous mr. boon crackt his slate on his desk and scrumbled the bits on the floor.
34 “sir,” he cried, “my poem is too fair for the eyes of the herd.”
the teacher pluckt his beard harder greatly taken by this swanky touch, and was going to give the prize to that chap until of a sudden mr. withersq sprang airily forward crying in a pulpit voice: “read mine!”
he had wrote:—
horse that never gallops,
mere bakers horse, half horse
and half mare,
you belong to a baker,
you draw a cart with bread
down the blank streets.
growing pale with sorrow
why not kick up your heels?
springing on your back
i will tame you,
we will scamper to the prairies
and skin some bears.
35 that was the poem mr. withersq had wrote, he thought of it because of some cinemas he used to see.
the teacher seazed his head between his hands and beat it madly on his desk and shreiked very loud.
“ah,” he gasped as though washing in cold water, “this is immense, this is a charming poem, ah me, ah me, it is truly wonderful!”
and he wept tears.
the other pupils oped wide their eyes, and heard him, and lept up crying “ah yes, charming, wonderful, what forse what words what pictures what simpelness,” or something like that. many came and kissed mr. withersq and burst on all sides into sobs. there never was such a scene. selia meanwhile sat chewing her handky not knowing what to make of it though mr. withersq sent her a sly wink from time to time as though to say that her time was yet to come.
36 the teacher still beating his head on the desk now became devilishly excited and furiously rang a large hand bell which he drew from within.
“what is it, what is it?” cried selia to the glory-smothered mr. withersq.
“god knows,” replyed our hero, “but i think i have done the trick.”
on the wringing of the bell feet were heard to be approaching and many doors opened in the near distance. the door burst and many clever poetry teachers of the school followed by their pupils came hurrying in and rushed at mr. withersq where he stood beside the teacher modestly spottled with sweat and pawing at selia’s unwilling hand.
“a new poet, a new poet!” they all yelled, dancing with glee around the desk.
first came a man with scarlet face and flannel suit and spotted tie, rather after the fashion of those you give slips of paper to at 37street corners about the races. he was followed by a class of sturdy men some like sailors and some very artful looking prinking on their legs as they came, and all of these spoke bad words.
“that is the limerick class,” wispered the head teacher to selia.
an absent faced teacher with a lock over his eyes now rushed in crying: “where is the lad, where is he that i may press him to me?” and when with a fine gestur the head teacher pointed to mr. withersq this man rushed to him and hugged him up and so did the limerick chaps too after that, because the absent teacher was a very great irish poet.
then followed the rhyming class, very young poets these were, and after them trooped in a class mostly of bitter old fashioned ladys and a few clericels who wrote poetry deadling with the soul and sunday. then came an image class of more foreign 38appearance, who were learning how to say odd things, and their teacher was a dane from denmark. then came the lot that wrote sonnets which is very tricky work, who all wore blazers and white trowsers because they had been to oxford and their hair though curly was pleasantly soaked in smelly oils, not like the uncurbed heads of the former poets who had entered.
all these folks came busling in and many were the pleasant and curious garbs they sported, pleeted trousers, full puffy trousers, thin trousers tied under the boot, not to mention vegetated wastcoats or no wastcoats at all with very fancy shirts like ladys blouses, and all wore or carried hats such as were never i’m sure seen in dunns, which is a hat shop.
“this is mr. harold withersq,” now cried the head teacher when they had all entered, “whom our enemys emilian boom and company have chosed to heap insults on seeing he 39was a stranger. his unckle burt is dead and has left him a good bit of money. and now he has gone and written a most wonderful poem. our good sonnet teacher is at this moment speaking on the phone to the minister of education at buckingham palace to ask him if he will have him made our new head poet.”
“here here,” muttered the gathering, at which the eyes of mr. withersq lighted up and he gave a fresh grip on selia’s hand.
the sonnet teacher now came from the telephone.
“well?” asked the head teacher. “what does the minister say?”
“oh, he’s popped up stairs to ask his majesty the king please to make mr. withersq head poet. i told him that mr. withersquashes unckle burt is dead, so i expect it will be all right.” by this he meant that money talks.
40 tinkle, tink, the telephone called out. the sonnet teacher went back to it.
all the assembly had their ears out for what he said on it.
“hello? oh yes, its the school of poetry. yes. oh, you say the king will be very glad to have a fresh poet? that’s good. i see. goodbye!”
as he put down the hear-piece, a gruff cheer burst from the poets filling the room. the head teacher held up his hand. silence followed.
“his majesty the king says he could well do with a fresh poet,” he announced, “and i am sure you will all agree that our new friend mr. withersquash is a very suitable one for the job. i therefore here and now award him the head poet of england. three cheers for him. go it, boys!”
“ah ah” they screemed. “hurrah-hurrah-hurrah! that is charming!” all the young 41lady poets and all the young gentlemen poets jumped for joy because the new poet had sprung from their school.
the teachers and classes now drew in a ring round our hero clasping his selia. the old lady servant who had opened the door to our heros now entered bearing a golden hat-box which she presented with a touching curtsy to the head teacher. he soon whipped off the lid, and drew forth an object mufled in crinkeld paper.
“ooh!” breathed all present, sucking in their breaths.
off came the crinkeld paper, and the bald bearded teacher drew forth a sweet little crown, all made of leaves, and bending over, slipped it on top of mr. withersquashes head.
“that is until his dear majesty the king has time to ask him to the palace,” said he and kissed him a lot very sloppy and would have kist selia but mr. withersq said not.
42 all the crowd had a good clap and were very excited, for you see mr. withersq had wrote the best poem of the top class of the swankiest school of poetry in briton and had been made head poet for his trouble which is how those things are done and they choose a new one every few years or so when the old ones get stale.
but mr. withersq took the bun by laying his littel crown of leaves at selia’s feet with a low bow (not wishing to go out in the street with it on) after which he hung it on one arm, and taking selia on the other they walked forth amid the admiring throng waving them a harty goodbye.
