Nay, sweet Smilinda, do not chide The wind that wantons with thy hair; The grass will all his prickles hide Nor harm thy snowy feet and bare. And, listen, the enamoured air Makes lutestrings of thy locks so fair. At night the stars are mirrors which reflect Thine eyes: at least that is what I expect. Mr. Wogan spent an hour and three pipes of tobacco over his unwonted exercise, which brought him into a great heat. Having finished the verse he blew out his cheeks and took a rest from his labours. It was a fine spring morning, and the sun bright as a midsummer day. To his right the creepers were beginning to stretch their green tendrils over the red bricks of the garden wall. To his left half-a-dozen steps led up to a raised avenue of trees. Wogan looked down the avenue, noted the border of spring flowers, and a flash of a big window at the extreme end; and in all the branches the birds sang. The world seemed all together very good, and his poem quite apiece with the world. Wogan stretched his arms and kicked out his feet. His feet struck against something hard in a tuft of grass. He stooped down and picked it up. It was Kelly's Virgil. The book was open, and the pages all blotted and smeared with the dew. It had evidently lain open on the grass by the bench all night. Wogan wiped the covers dry, and, using it as a desk, settled himself to the composition of his second verse. He had not, however, thought of an opening for it before a voice hailed him from behind. He turned round and saw Kelly coming towards him from the direction of the orchard, and at that moment the opening of his verse occurred to him; Strephon offered to Smilinda his heart's allegiance. Wogan set his pencil to the paper, fearful lest he should forget the line. 'Nick,' cries Kelly, waving a bundle of letters, and starts to run. Wogan slipped his paper between the leaves of the book; just as he did so, Strephon, in return for his heart's 'allegiance,' asked for Smilinda's soft 'obedience.' 'Nick,' cries Kelly again, coming up to the bench, 'what d'you think?' 'I think, 'says Wogan, 'that interruption is the true source of inspiration.' 'What do you mean?' asked Kelly, looking at Wogan's pencil. 'I mean,' says Wogan, looking at the cover of the book, 'that if I lived by my poetry, I would hire a man to rap at my door all day long.' Kelly, however, had no ears for philosophy. 'Nick,' says he, 'will you listen to me, if you please? I have a letter from Miss Oglethorpe. It explains--' 'Yes,' interposed Wogan thoughtfully. 'It explains why the best poets are ever those who are most dunned by their creditors.' Kelly snatched the Virgil out of Wogan's hand, and threw it on to the grass. The book opened as it fell. It opened at the soiled pages, and it was behind those pages that Wogan had slipped his poem.