“O Summer-Term, sweet to the Jester, who’s plenty of food for his jokes!” “I see; but not enough rhymes for them, eh?” “That’s about it, I suppose.” Chips was laughing, though Jan was just a little too sardonic for him, as had often been the case of late. The scene was the poet’s study, and the time after lock-up on a Sunday evening, when the friends always sat together until prayers. The tardy shades of early June were intensified by the opaque window overlooking the road and only opening at the top. Chips had his candles burning, and the minute den that he kept so spick and span, with its plush frames brushed, and its little pictures seldom out of the horizontal, looked quite fascinating in the two dim lights. The poet, looking the part in _pince-nez_ started in the Easter holidays, was seated at his table; the critic lounged in the folding chair with the leg-rest up and a bag of biscuits in his lap. The evolution of the Poet Chips was no novelty to Jan, who had been watching the phenomenon ever since Chips had received a Handsome Book as second prize for his “The school-bell tolls the knell of parting play,” in a parody competition in _Every Boy’s Magazine_. That secret triumph had occurred in their first term, and Chips had promptly forwarded a companion effort (“In her ear he whispers thickly”) to the School “Mag.,” in which it was publicly declined with something more than thanks. “C.——Your composition shows talent, but tends to vulgarity, especially towards the end. Choose a more lofty subject, and try again!” C. did both without delay, in a shipwreck lay (“The sea was raging with boisterous roar”) which impressed Jan deeply, but only elicited “C.——Very sorry to discourage you, _but_——” in the February number. Discouraged poor C. had certainly been, but not more than was now the case under the grim sallies of his own familiar friend. It was really too bad of Jan, whose Easter holidays had been redeemed by a week of bliss at the Carpenters’ nice house near London. The two boys had done exactly what they liked—kept all hours—seen a play or two, besides producing one themselves (“Alone in the Pirates’ Lair”) in a toy theatre which showed the child in old Chips alongside the precocious poetaster. But even Jan had printed programmes and shifted scenes with a zest unworthy of the heavier criticism. “Go it, Chips!” cried the critic through half a biscuit. “It’s first-class; let’s have some more.” But Chips only went it for another couplet:— “When 'tis joy on one’s rug to be basking, and watching a match on the Upper, When the works of J. Lillywhite, junior, rank higher than those of one Tupper——” “Who’s he when he’s at home?” inquired the relentless Jan. “Oh, dash it all, you want to know too much! You’re as bad as the old man; last time our form showed up verses to him I’d got Olympus, meaning sky. 'Who’s your friend Olympus?’ says Jerry, with a jab of his joiner’s pencil. And now you say the same about poor old Tupper!”