These Latin books Leave him fatigued, but not fatigued to turn Plotinus, Xenophon, Boccacio, Ars Amatoria and Remedia Amoris. And just this moment Father Whimsett reads Catullus, killing time, before he hears Confession, gets the music of Catullus Along the light that enters at the eye: Etherial strings plucked by the intellect To vibrate to the inner ear. At times He must re-light his half-forgot cigar. And while the music of the Latin verse, Which is an echo, as he stops to light His half-forgot cigar, is wafted through His meditation, as a tune is heard After the keys are stayed, it blends, becomes The soul, interpretation of these stories, Which lovers tell him in these later days. And now the clock upon the mantel chimes The quarter of the hour. Up goes Catullus By Ovid on the shelf. The dead cigar Is thrown away. He rises from the chair-- When Father Conway enters, just to visit Some idle moments, smoke and have a talk. And Father Whimsett takes his seat again, Waves Father Conway to a comfort chair, Says "Have a smoke," and Father Conway smokes, And sees Catullus, says you read Catullus, And lays the morning _Times_ upon the table, And says to Father Whimsett: "Every day The _Times_ has stories better than Catullus, And episodes which Horace would have used. I wish we had a poet who would take This city of Chicago, write it up, The old Chicago, and the new Chicago, The race track, old cafés and gambling places, The prize fights, wrestling matches, sporting houses, As Horace wrote up Rome. Or if we had A Virgil he would find an epic theme In this American matter, typical Of our America, one phase or more Concerning Elenor Murray. Here to-day There is a story, of some letters found In Arthur Fouche's mansion, under the floor, Sensational, dramatic.