“Ah,” he gasped as though washing in cold water, “this is immense, this is a charming poem, ah me, ah me, it is truly wonderful!” And he wept tears. The other pupils oped wide their eyes, and heard him, and lept up crying “Ah yes, charming, wonderful, what forse what words what pictures what simpelness,” or something like that. Many came and kissed Mr. Withersq and burst on all sides into sobs. There never was such a scene. Selia meanwhile sat chewing her handky not knowing what to make of it though Mr. Withersq sent her a sly wink from time to time as though to say that her time was yet to come. The teacher still beating his head on the desk now became devilishly excited and furiously rang a large hand bell which he drew from within. “What is it, what is it?” cried Selia to the glory-smothered Mr. Withersq. “God knows,” replyed our hero, “but I think I have done the trick.” On the wringing of the bell feet were heard to be approaching and many doors opened in the near distance. The door burst and many clever poetry teachers of the school followed by their pupils came hurrying in and rushed at Mr. Withersq where he stood beside the teacher modestly spottled with sweat and pawing at Selia’s unwilling hand. “A new poet, a new poet!” they all yelled, dancing with glee around the desk. First came a man with scarlet face and flannel suit and spotted tie, rather after the fashion of those you give slips of paper to at street corners about the races. He was followed by a class of sturdy men some like sailors and some very artful looking prinking on their legs as they came, and all of these spoke bad words. “That is the limerick class,” wispered the head teacher to Selia. An absent faced teacher with a lock over his eyes now rushed in crying: “Where is the lad, where is he that I may press him to me?” and when with a fine gestur the head teacher pointed to Mr. Withersq this man rushed to him and hugged him up and so did the limerick chaps too after that, because the absent teacher was a very great Irish poet. Then followed the rhyming class, very young poets these were, and after them trooped in a class mostly of bitter old fashioned ladys and a few clericels who wrote poetry deadling with the soul and Sunday. Then came an image class of more foreign appearance, who were learning how to say odd things, and their teacher was a Dane from Denmark. Then came the lot that wrote sonnets which is very tricky work, who all wore blazers and white trowsers because they had been to Oxford and their hair though curly was pleasantly soaked in smelly oils, not like the uncurbed heads of the former poets who had entered.