Abbeychurch Or Self-Control and Self-Conceit Part 30

'Why, Anne,' said Elizabeth, presently after, 'you are doing that old wreath over again, that you were about last year, when I was at Merton Hall.'

'Yes,' said Anne; 'it is a pattern which I like very much.'

'Do you like working the same thing over again?' said Katherine; 'I always get tired of it.'

'I like it very much,' said Anne; 'going over the same st.i.tches puts me in mind of things that were going on when I was working them before.--Now, Lizzie, the edge of that poppy seems to have written in it all that delightful talk we had together, at home, about growing up, that day when Papa and Mamma dined out, and we had it all to ourselves.

And the iris has the whole of Don Quixote folded up in it, because Papa was reading it to us, when I was at work upon it.'

'There certainly seems to be a use and pleasure in never sitting down three minutes without that carpet-work, which I should never have suspected,' said Elizabeth.

'Anne thinks as I do,' said Mrs. Woodbourne; 'I find carpet-work quite a companion to me, but I cannot persuade Lizzie to take any pleasure in it.'

'I have not time for it,' said Elizabeth, 'nor patience if I had time.

It is all I can persuade myself to do to keep my clothes from being absolute rags.'

'Yes,' said Katherine; 'you always read with Meg in your lap, when you have no mending to do; you have been six months braiding that frock.'

'Oh! that is company work,' said Elizabeth; 'I began it at Merton Hall for Dora, but I believe Winifred must have it now. But now it is so nearly done, that I shall finish while you are here.'

Elizabeth did not however long continue working, for as soon as tea was over she proposed to play at the game of Conglomeration, as she had talked of doing in the course of the walk. 'I give notice, however,'

said she, 'that we are likely to laugh more than will suit the gravity of the elders, therefore I recommend adjourning to the inner drawing-room.--Mamma, may we have candles there?'

Consent was given, and while the candles were being brought, and Elizabeth was looking out some paper, Anne whispered to her brother, 'Rupert, pray say nothing about Fido, or the Mechanics' Inst.i.tute, or something unpleasant will surely come of it.'

'Oh! Anne,' was the answer, 'you have robbed me of my best couplet--

Weeping like forsaken Dido, When she found the slaughtered Fido.

Where is the use of playing if there is to be no fun?'

''Where is the use of fun?' said the c.o.c.kchafer to the boy who was spinning it,' said Anne.

'Impertinence, impertinence, impertinence,' said Rupert, shaking his head at her.

By this time all was ready, and Elizabeth called the brother and sister to take their places at the table in the inner drawing-room. She then wrote a substantive at the upper end of a long strip of paper, and folding it down, handed it on to Lucy, who also wrote a noun, turned it down, and gave the paper to Helen, who, after writing hers and hiding it, pa.s.sed it on to Rupert. Thus the paper was handed round till it was filled. It was then unrolled, and each player was required to write a copy of verses in which these words were to be introduced as rhymes in the order in which they stood in the list. Rupert was rather put out by his sister's not allowing him to turn the poem in the way he wished, and he thought proper to find fault with half the words in the list.

'HARROGATE,' said he, 'what is to be done with such a word?'

'You can manage it very well if you choose,' said Elizabeth.

'But who could have thought of such a word?' said he, holding up the list to the candle, and scrutinizing the writing. 'Some one with a watery taste, doubtless.'

'You know those things are never divulged,' said Anne.

'FRANCES, too,' continued Rupert, 'there is another impossible case; I will answer for it, Helen wrote that, a reminiscence of dear d.y.k.elands.'

'No, indeed I did not,' said Helen; 'it is FRANCIS, too, I believe.'

'Oh yes,' said Harriet, 'it is FRANCIS, I wrote it, because--do not you remember, Lucy?--Frank Hollis--'

'Well, never mind,' said Elizabeth, who wished to hear no more of that gentleman; 'you may make it whichever you please. And Rupert, pray do not be so idle; put down the list, no one can see it; write your own verses, and tell me the next word to witch.'

'EYES,' said Rupert, 'and then BOUNCE. I do not believe that word is English.'

'BOUNCE, no,' said Katherine; 'it is BONNET, I wrote it myself.'

'Then why do you make your 't' so short?' said Rupert; 'I must give you a writing lesson, Miss Kitty.'

'I must give you a lesson in silence, Mr. Rupert,' said Elizabeth.

'I obey,' said Rupert, with a funny face of submission, and taking up his paper and pencil; but in a minute or two he started up, exclaiming, 'What are they saying about Oxford?' and walked into the next room, intending to take part in the conversation between his father and uncle. Mr. Woodbourne, however, who was no great admirer of Rupert's forwardness, did not shew so much deference to his nephew's opinion as to make him very unwilling to return to the inner drawing-room, when Anne came to tell him that all the poems were finished, and Elizabeth ready to read them aloud.

'So this is all that you have to shew for yourself,' said Elizabeth, holding up a sc.r.a.p of paper; 'what is all this?'

'A portrait of Miss Merton,' said Rupert; 'do not you see the poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling?'

'Is it?' said Elizabeth; 'I took it for Miss Squeers in the agonies of death, as I see that is the subject of the poem--all that there is of it, at least.

Did ever you see a stupider POEM?

Pray who is the author? I know him, I know him, He went to school to Mr. Squeers, Who often made the youth shed TEARS.

Now for the next, which is nearly as short.

I will write a POEM, Clear and flowing, It will make you shed TEARS, And excite your fears.

'Tis about a witch, Drowned in a ditch, Your tears come from your EYES.

If you are wise, Don't make a BOUNCE, Or you'll tear your flounce, And upset the sugar JAR, Which I cannot spare, I must give some to FRANCIS, So well he dances; Sugar canes packed up in LEAVES, The canes are tied up like wheat sheaves; Francis wears a scarlet JACKET, He made a dreadful racket At HARROGATE, Because he had to wait, In a field of BARLEY, To hold a parley, About a bone of marrow; His heart was transfixed by an ARROW, By a lady in VELVET, And he was her pet.'

All laughed heartily at this poem, which perhaps diverted them more than a better would have done; Harriet was highly delighted with what she considered their applause, though she knew that of all the rhymes, scarcely three had been found by herself.

'Why, Mr. Merton, what are you doing?' asked Harriet; 'are you writing any more?'

'Oh! I hope he will tell us about Mr. Squeers,' said Katherine.

No one could doubt that the next which Elizabeth read was her own.

I'm afraid you expect a beautiful POEM, Though I make a long and tedious proem, But great and dreadful are my fears, No poem of mine will put you in TEARS.

My genius suggests neither fairy nor witch, My tales to adorn with cauldrons of pitch, Alarm the world with fiery EYES, And from the hero s.n.a.t.c.h his prize, Leap out from her den with a terrible BOUNCE, And on the trembling damsel pounce, And bottle her up in a close corked JAR, Or whirl her away in a flaming car; Then her knight, the brave Sir FRANCIS, Upon his n.o.ble steed advances, All his armour off he LEAVES, Preserves alone his polished greaves, His defence is a buff JACKET, Nor sword nor axe nor lance can crack it, It was made at HARROGATE, By a tailor whose shop had a narrow gate; The elves attack with spears of BARLEY, But he drives them off, oh! rarely, Then they shoot him with an ARROW, From bow-strings greased with ear-wigs' marrow, The feathers, moth-wings downy VELVET, The bow-strings, of the spider's net: Thousands come, armed in this PATTERN, Which proves their mistress is no slattern; Some wear the legs and hoof of PAN, And some are in the form of man; But the knight is armed, for in his POCKET He has a talismanic locket, Which once belonged to HERCULES, Who wore it on his bunch of keys; The fairy comes, quite old and fat, Mounted upon a monstrous BAT; Around the knight a web she weaves, And holds him fast, and there she LEAVES Sir Francis weeping for his charmer, And longing for his knightly ARMOUR.

But his sword was cast in the self-same forge As that of the great champion GEORGE; Thus he defies the witch's ARMY, He breaks his bands; 'Ye elves, beware me, I fear not your LEVIATHAN, No spells can stop a desperate man.'

Away in terror flies the REAR-GUARD, He seizes on the witch abhorred, Confines her in a c.o.c.kLE Sh.e.l.l, And breaks all her enchantments fell, Catches her princ.i.p.al LIEUTENANT, Makes him of a split pine the tenant; Carries away the lady, nimble, As e'er Miss Merton plied her THIMBLE; Oh! this story would your frowns unbend.

Could I tell it to the END.

'Oh!' said Rupert, glad to seize an opportunity of retaliating upon Elizabeth; 'I give you credit; a very ingenious compound of Thalaba, Pigwiggin, and the Tempest, and the circ.u.mstance of the witch whirling away the lady is something new.'

'No, it is not,' said Elizabeth; 'it is the beginning of the story of the Palace of Truth, in the Veillees du Chateau. I only professed to conglomerate the words, not to pa.s.s off my story as a regular old traditional legend.'