My own Louise, put down the cat, And come and stand by me; I’m sad to hear you talk like that, Where’s your philosophy? That sound—attend to what I tell— That sound was _not_ Saint Pancras Bell. “Sound is the name the sage selects For the concluding term Of a long series of effects, Of which that blow’s the germ. The following brief analysis Shows the interpolations, Miss. “The blow which, when the clapper slips, Falls on your friend the Bell, Changes its circle to ellipse, (A word you’d better spell), And then comes elasticity, Restoring what it used to be. “Nay, making it a little more, The circle shifts about. As much as it shrunk in before The Bell, you see, swells out; And so a new ellipse is made, (You’re not attending, I’m afraid). “This change of form disturbs the air, Which in its turn behaves In like elastic fashion there, Creating waves on waves; Which press each other onward, dear, Until the outmost finds your ear. “Within that ear the surgeons find A _tympanum_, or drum, Which has a little bone behind,— _Malleus_, it’s called by some; But those not proud of Latin Grammar Humbly translate it as the hammer. “The wave’s vibrations this transmits On to the _incus_ bone, (_Incus_ means anvil, which it hits), And this transfers the tone To the small _os orbiculure_, The tiniest bone that people carry. “The _stapes_ next—the name recalls A stirrup’s form, my daughter— Joins three half-circular canals, Each filled with limpid water; Their curious lining, you’ll observe, Made of the auditory nerve. “This vibrates next—and then we find The mystic work is crowned; For then my daughter’s gentle Mind First recognizes sound. See what a host of causes swell To make up what you call ‘the Bell.’” Awhile she paused, my bright Louise, And pondered on the case; Then, settling that he meant to teaze, She slapped her father’s face. “You bad old man, to sit and tell Such gibberygosh about a Bell!’” SIR TRAY: AN ARTHURIAN IDYL.