"You wote thum veway pwetty poetry the other day upon the _Gweat Thea Therpenth_, Thmilackth," said the effeminate baronet: "and I don't know why you thouldn't do the thame by the two ath tweeth." "Yes; but--strike me ugly! Miss Isabella would not let me insert them in her _Album_," observed the captain; "and that was very unkind." "Bella says that you undertook to finish a butterfly and spoilt it," exclaimed the count laughing. "And now it theemth for all the world like an enormouth fwog," said Sir Cherry. "Now, really, Bounce, that is too bad!" drawled the captain, playing with his moustachio. "I appeal to the signora herself, whether the butterfly was so very--very bad?" "Considering it to be your first attempt," said the young lady, "it was not so very much amiss; and I must say that I preferred the butterfly to the lines upon the Sea Serpent." "Well, may I perish," cried the hussar, "if I think the lines were so bad. But we will refer them to Mr. Markham;--not that I dispute Miss Isabella's judgment: I'd rather have my moustachios singed than do that! But----" "The vertheth! the vertheth!" cried Sir Cherry. "I am afraid that my talent does not justify such a reference to it," said Markham; "and I should rather imagine that Miss Isabella's decision will admit of no appeal." "My dear thir, we will have your opinion. The vertheth were compothed in a hurway; and they may not be quite tho ekthellent and faultleth ath they might be." "I only devoted half an hour to them, strike me if I did!" "Let'th thee--how do they begin?" continued the effeminate young baronet of nineteen. "Oh! I wemember--the opening ith thimple but ekpwethive: "Thwough the thea the therpenth wollth, Moving ever 'thwixth the polth, Fwightning herwinth, pwath, and tholth, In hith pwogweth wapid;-- Thwallowing up the mighty thipth, By the thuction of hith lipth, Onward thill the monthtwer twipth, Like----" "Well, strike me!" interrupted the captain, "if ever I heard poetry spouted like that before. Please listen to me, Mr. Markham. This is the way the poem opens:-- "Through the sea the serpent rolls Moving ever 'twixt the poles, Fright'ning herrings, sprats, and soles, In his progress rapid;-- Swallowing up the mighty ships, By the motion of his lips, Onward still the monster trips, Like----" "No, that ithn't the way," cried Sir Cherry. "Well, strike me, if I'll say another word more then," returned the captain of hussars, apparently very much inclined to cry. "I am sure Miss Isabella was wrong not to have inserted these verses in her album," said Armstrong, with a smile of good-natured satire. "But I know that my young friend, Mr. Markham, has a more refined taste with regard to poetry than he chose just now to admit."