"What flower would you like it to be, my boy?" I asked.
"A poppy!" he answered; and after consultation, "a poppy!" agreed the
others. So a poppy it is to be. A visit to the seedsman's procured the
necessary surreptitious poppy seed; and so now poor Sir Goldfish sleeps
with the seed of sleep in his mouth, and the children watch his grave
day by day, breathless for his resplendent resurrection. Will you write
us an epitaph?'
Ariel forgive me! Here is what I sent:
'Five inches deep Sir Goldfish lies;
Here last September was he laid;
Poppies these, that were his eyes,
Of fish-bones are these blue-bells made;
His fins of gold that to and fro
Waved and waved so long ago,
Still as petals wave and wave
To and fro above his grave.
Hearken, too! for so his knell
Tolls all day each tiny bell.'
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: From a tiny privately-printed volume of deliciously
original lyrics by Mr. R.K. Leather, since republished by Mr. Fisher
Unwin, 1890, and at present published by Mr. John Lane.]
CHAPTER IX
THAT THIRTEENTH MAID
'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.'--
_Merchant of Venice_.
It occurs to me here to wonder whether there can be any reader
ungrateful enough to ask with grumbling voice, 'What of the book-bills?
The head-line has been the sole mention of them now for many pages; and
in the last chapter, where a book was referred to, the writer was
perverse enough to choose one that never belonged to Narcissus at all.
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