"
"I've got a hen-tiger somewhere in the poem," said Clovis, hunting
through his notes. "Here she is:
'The tawny tigress 'mid the tangled teak
Drags to her purring cubs' enraptured ears
The harsh death-rattle in the pea-fowl's beak,
A jungle lullaby of blood and tears.'"
Bertie van Tahn rose hurriedly from his recumbent position and
made for the glass door leading into the next compartment.
"I think your idea of home life in the jungle is perfectly
horrid," he said. "The cobra was sinister enough, but the
improvised rattle in the tiger-nursery is the limit. If you're
going to make me turn hot and cold all over I may as well go into
the steam room at once."
"Just listen to this line," said Clovis; "it would make the
reputation of any ordinary poet:
'and overhead
The pendulum-patient Punkah, parent of stillborn breeze.'"
"Most of your readers will think 'punkah' is a kind of iced drink
or half-time at polo," said Bertie, and disappeared into the
steam.
. . . . . . . . . .
The SMOKY CHIMNEY duly published the "Recessional," but it proved
to be its swan song, for the paper never attained to another
issue.
Loona Bimberton gave up her intention of attending the Durbar and
went into a nursing-home on the Sussex Downs.
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