"Yes; once," said the Idiot. "I sent it to the _Great Western Weekly_.
Oh yes. Here it is. Sent back with thanks. It's an octette written in
cigar-box dialect."
"In wh-a-at?" asked the Poet.
"Cigar-box dialect. Here it is:
"'O Manuel garcia alonzo,
Colorado especial H. Clay,
Invincible flora alphonzo,
Cigarette panatella el rey,
Victoria Reina selectas--
O twofer madura grande--
O conchas oscuro perfectas,
You drive all my sorrows away.'"
"Ingenious, but vicious," said the School-master, who does not smoke.
"Again thanks. How is this for a sonnet?" said the Idiot:
"'When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancel'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I now pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think of thee, dear friend!
All losses are restored and sorrows end.'"
"It is bosh!" said the School-master. The Poet smiled quietly.
"Perfect bosh!" repeated the School-master. "And only shows how in weak
hands so beautiful a thing as the sonnet can be made ridiculous.
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