" And as the
radiant Doc hastily quits that very post, and dives for the offending
brother, he scrambles under the piano and laughs derisively.
And then a silence falls upon the group--a gracious quiet, only
intruded upon by the very juicy and exuberant munching of an apple
from a remote fastness of the room, and the occasional thumping of a
bare heel against the floor.
At last I close my note-book with a half slam.
"That means," says Bob, laying down his pencil, and addressing the
girls,--"That means he's concluded his poem, and that he's not pleased
with it in any manner, and that he intends declining to read it, for
that self-acknowledged reason, and that he expects us to believe every
affected word of his entire speech--"
"Oh, don't!" I exclaim.
"Then give us the wretched production, in all its hideous deformity!"
And the girls all laugh so sympathetically, and Bob joins them so
gently, and yet with a tone, I know, that can be changed so quickly to
my further discomfiture, that I arise at once and read, without
apology or excuse, this primitive and very callow poem recovered here
to-day from the gilded roll:
A BACKWARD LOOK.
As I sat smoking, alone, yesterday,
And lazily leaning back in my chair,
Enjoying myself in a general way--
Allowing my thoughts a holiday
From weariness, toil and care,--
My fancies--doubtless, for ventilation--
Left ajar the gates of my mind,--
And Memory, seeing the situation,
Slipped out in street of "Auld Lang Syne.
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