"Eh, what? Oh, yes, I daresay I was napping," the other mumbled. He stood and stretched himself luxuriously. "Well, anyhow, don't be such an unmitigated grandmother. You see, I have a bit of rather important business to attend to. Which way is Miss Romeyne?" "Pauline Romeyne? why, but she married old General Ashmeade, you know. She was the gray-haired woman in purple who carried out her squalling brat when Taylor was introducing you, if you remember. She told me, while the General was getting the horses around, how sorry she was to miss your address, but they live three miles out, and Mrs. Ashmeade is simply a slave to the children. . . . Why, what in the world have you been dreaming about?" "Eh, what? Oh, yes, I daresay I was only napping," Mr. Charteris observed. He was aware that within they were still playing a riotous two-step. _BALLAD OF PLAGIARY_ "_Frères et matres, vous qui cultivez_"--PAUL VERVILLE. Hey, my masters, lords and brothers, ye that till the fields of rhyme, Are ye deaf ye will not hearken to the clamor of your time? Still ye blot and change and polish--vary, heighten and transpose-- Old sonorous metres marching grandly to their tranquil close. Ye have toiled and ye have fretted; ye attain perfected speech: Ye have nothing new to utter and but platitudes to preach. And your rhymes are all of loving, as within the old days when Love was lord of the ascendant in the horoscopes of men. Still ye make of love the utmost end and scope of all your art; And, more blind than he you write of, note not what a modest part Loving now may claim in living, when we have scant time to spare, Who are plundering the sea-depths, taking tribute of the air,-- Whilst the sun makes pictures for us; since to-day, for good or ill, Earth and sky and sea are harnessed, and the lightnings work our will. Hey, my masters, all these love-songs by dust-hidden mouths were sung That ye mimic and re-echo with an artful-artless tongue,-- Sung by poets close to nature, free to touch her garments' hem Whom to-day ye know not truly; for ye only copy them. Them ye copy--copy always, with your backs turned to the sun, Caring not what man is doing, noting that which man has done. _We are talking over telephones, as Shakespeare could not talk;_ _We are riding out in motor-cars where Homer had to walk;_ _And pictures Dante labored on of mediaeval Hell_ _The nearest cinematograph paints quicker, and as well._ But ye copy, copy always;--and ye marvel when ye find This new beauty, that new meaning,--while a model stands behind, Waiting, young and fair as ever, till some singer turn and trace Something of the deathless wonder of life lived in any place. Hey, my masters, turn from piddling to the turmoil and the strife! Cease from sonneting, my brothers; let us fashion songs from life.