tributed to Punch
by Sir Owen Seaman and Mr. Charles Graves and men of that sort. And
everybody has been struck, as I have, by the extraordinary easiness of
the performance. All that one needs is to get some odd little incident,
such as the revolt of the Sultan of Kowfat, make up an amusing title,
and then string the verses together in such a way as to make rhymes with
all the odd words that come into the narrative. In fact, the thing is
ease itself.

I therefore saw a glorious chance with the Sultan of Kowfat. Indeed, I
fairly chuckled to myself when I thought what amusing rhymes could be
made with "Negritos," "modus operandi" and "Dog Men of Darfur." I can
scarcely imagine anything more excruciatingly funny than the rhymes
which can be made with them. And as for the title, bringing in the word
Kowfat or some play upon it, the thing is perfectly obvious. The idea
amused me so much that I set to work at the poem at once.

I am sorry to say that I failed to complete it. Not that I couldn't
have done so, given time; I am quite certain that if I had had about two
years I could have done it. The main structure of the poem, however, is
here and I give it for what it is worth. Even as it is it strikes me as
extraordinarily good. Here it is:

Title

...................... Kowfat

Verse One

..........................,
............... modus operandi;
..........................,
.................., Negritos:
....................... P'shu.

Verse Two

..................... Khalifate;
............. Dog Men of Darfur:
....................... T'chk.

Excellent little thing, isn't it? All it needs is the rhymes. As far as
it goes it has just exactly the ease and the sweep required. And if some
one will tell me how Owen Seaman and those people get the rest of the
ease and the sweep I'll be glad to put it in.

One further experiment of the same sort I made with the English Press in
another direction and met again with failure. If there is one paper in
the world for which I have respect and--if I may say it--an affection,
it is the London Spectator. I suppose that I am only one of thousands
and thousands of people who feel that way. Why under the circumstances
the Spectator failed to publish my letter I cannot say. I wanted no
money for it: I only wanted the honour of seeing it inserted beside the
letter written from the Rectory, Hops, Hants, or the Shrubbery, Potts,