ipt shortly after New-Year's day; while to the Idiot, Mr. Warren's
name was familiar as that of a frequent contributor to the funny papers
of the day.

"I was very much amused by your poem in the last number of the
_Observer_, Mr. Warren," said the Idiot, as they sat down to breakfast
together.

"Were you, indeed?" returned Mr. Warren. "I am sorry to hear that, for it
was intended to be a serious effort."

"Of course it was, Mr. Warren, and so it appeared," said the
School-Master, with an indignant glance at the Idiot. "It was a very
dignified and stately bit of work, and I must congratulate you upon it."

"I didn't mean to give offence," said the Idiot. "I've read so much of
yours that was purely humorous that I believe I'd laugh at a dirge if you
should write one; but I really thought your lines in the _Observer_ were
a burlesque. You had the same thought that Rossetti expresses in 'The
Woodspurge':

'The wind flapped loose, the wind was still,
Shaken out dead from tree to hill;
I had walked on at the wind's will,
I sat now, for the wind was still.'

That's Rossetti, if you remember. Slightly suggestive of 'Blow Ye Winds
of the Morning! Blow! Blow! Blow!' but more or less pleasing."

"I recall the poem you speak of," said Warren, with dignity; "but the
true poet, sir--and I hope I have some claim to be considered as
such--never so far forgets himself as to burlesque his masters."

"Well, I don't know what to call it, then, when a poet takes the same
thought that has previously been used by his masters and makes a funny
poem--"

"But," returned the Poet, warmly, "it was not a funny poem."

"It made me laugh," retorted the Idiot, "and that is more than half the
professedly funny poems we get nowadays can do. Therefore I say it was a
funny poem, and I don't see how you can deny that it was a burlesque of
Rossetti."

"Well, I do deny it _in toto_."

"I don't know anything about denying it _in toto_," rejoined the Idiot,
"but I'd deny it in print if I were you. I know plenty of people who
think it was a burlesque, and I overheard one man say--he is a Rossetti
crank--that you ought to be ashamed of yourself for writing it."

"There is no use of discussing the matter further," said the Poet. "I am
innocent of any such intent as you have ascribed to me, and if people say
I have burlesqued Rossetti they say what is not true."

"Did you ever read that little poem of Swinburne's called 'The Boy a