"I'm writing a poem on Peace," said Reginald, emerging from asweeping operation through a tin of mixed biscuits, in whosedepths a macaroon or two might yet be lurking."Something of the kind seems to have been attempted already,"said the Other."Oh, I know; but I may never have the chance again. Besides,I've got a new fountain pen. I don't pretend to have gone onany very original lines; in writing about Peace the thing isto say what everybody else is saying, only to say it better.It begins with the usual ornithological emotion -'When the widgeon westward wingingHeard the folk Vereeniginging,Heard the shouting and the singing'" -"Vereeniginging is good, but why widgeon?""Why not? Anything that winged westward would naturallybegin with a W.""Need it wing westward?""The bird must go somewhere. You wouldn't have it hangaround and look foolish. Then I've brought in somethingabout the heedless hartebeest galloping over the desertedveldt.""Of course you know it's practically extinct in thoseregions?""I can't help that, it gallops so nicely. I make it have allsorts of unexpected yearnings -'Mother, may I go and maffick,Tear around and hinder traffic?'Of course you'll say there would be no traffic worthbothering about on the bare and sun-scorched veldt, butthere's no other word that rhymes with maffick.""Seraphic?"Reginald considered. "It might do, but I've got a lot aboutangels later on. You must have angels in a Peace poem; Iknow dreadfully little about their habits.""They can do unexpected things, like the hartebeest.""Of course. Then I turn on London, the City of DreadfulNocturnes, resonant with hymns of joy and thanksgiving -'And the sleeper, eye unlidding,Heard a voice for ever biddingMuch farewell to Dolly Gray;Turning weary on his truckle-Bed he heard the honey-suckleLauded in apiarian lay.'Longfellow at his best wrote nothing like that.""I agree with you.""I wish you wouldn't. I've a sweet temper, but I can't standbeing agreed with. And I'm so worried about the aasvogel."Reginald stared dismally at the biscuit-tin, which nowpresented an unattractive array of rejected cracknels."I believe," he murmured, "if I could find a woman with anunsatisfied craving for cracknels, I should marry her.""What is the tragedy of the aasvogel?" asked the Othersympathetically."Oh, simply that there's no rhyme for it. I thought about itall the time I was dressing--it's dreadfully bad for one tothink whilst one's dressing--and all lunch-time, and I'mstill hung up over it. I feel like those unfortunateautomobilists who achieve an unenviable motoriety by comingto a hopeless stop with their cars in the most crowdedthoroughfares. I'm afraid I shall have to drop the aasvogel,and it did give such lovely local colour to the thing.""Still you've got the heedless hartebeest.""And quite a decorative bit of moral admonition--when you'veworried the meaning out -'Cease, War, thy bubbling madness that the wine shares,And bid thy legions turn their swords to mine shares.'Mine shares seems to fit the case better than ploughshares.There's lots more about the blessings of Peace, shall I go onreading it?""If I must make a choice, I think I would rather they went onwith the war."
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