“Of course these words were meant only for the children,” said Rose; “I like this better:
A Smith who beat the gold of song To voices pleasant, sweet and strong: What royal jewelries he wrought With simple words and kindly thought! A careless, foolish, wasteful soul, Too fond, alas, of pipe and bowl; Vain of his looks, his waistcoat’s set, Oppressed with duns, o’erwhelmed with debt, Crushed with distasteful Grub Street work, The friend of Reynolds and of Burke, He smiling bore the gibes of Johnson, And loitered in the shop of Tonson; And well or ill, or drunk or sober, In youth or age’s drear October Went smiling, jesting, laughing through, If friends were false or friends were true. And fared he well, or fared he ill, Left but kind words to greet us still, And modest humor’s gentlest play, That bids no maiden turn away, And many a cool, clear, ringing line, Still heard through all those noisy years, And wholesome as a wayside spring, And sweet with smiles, or sad with tears.”
“That is really a nice bit of character-sketching,” said Carington, as he rose. “We must try the postponed plots some other time.”
“I think my father and you and Mr. Ellett could manage the ghost scene.”
“Perhaps we may have a chance next winter,” he returned. “I have a bridge to build near your good city, and shall certainly see you all as I go and come.” Rose made no reply. The gap in the talk was filled by Miss Anne:
“And,” added Lyndsay, coming out, “we shall hold you to it. There is a little old Madeira still left.”
“Your fellows in the war drank all that would have been mine,” said Carington. “You owe me principal and interest.”
“We shall be honest; and we shall look to see you also, Mr. Ellett,” said Rose.
“Good night.” And they went to their boats. As they poled away in the night, Carington said to himself, “If those railway directors but knew it, I would pay for the privilege of building their bridge. However, skew bridges are difficult: it will take a good while.” And he lit his pipe.
“Oh, about the difficulty of constructing a cantilever skew bridge.”
“What a word! Good gracious! It suggests a dreadful pun.”
“Don’t,” cried Carington. “Come alongside, and give me some baccy.”
There was something pitiful to Dorothy in the eagerness with which Joe received the inscription, which she had carefully printed on four sheets of foolscap basted together. She read it to him, over and over, that Monday morning, at his request, until he could repeat it easily.