"Hear how kind Mr. Bons is," said his mother, while his father said, "Very well. Let him say his Poem, and that will do. He is going away to my sister on Tuesday, and she will cure him of this alley-slopering." (Laughter.) "Say your Poem."
The boy began. "'Standing aloof in giant ignorance.'"
His father laughed again—roared. "One for you, my son! 'Standing aloof in giant ignorance!' I never knew these poets talked sense. Just describes you. Here, Bons, you go in for poetry. Put him through it, will you, while I fetch up the whisky?"
"Yes, give me the Keats," said Mr. Bons. "Let him say his Keats to me."
So for a few moments the wise man and the ignorant boy were left alone in the smoking-room.
"'Standing aloof in giant ignorance, of thee I dream and of the Cyclades, as one who sits ashore and longs perchance to visit———'"
"Quite right. To visit what?"
"'To visit dolphin coral in deep seas,'" said the boy, and burst into tears.
"Come, come! why do you cry?"
"Because—because all these words that
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