Thank you for coming to etiennebev.com The website is being built now etiennebev.com was created: August 14 2012 21:25:58. Today Monday 20 May 2013 06:23:25 Wilson complained bitterly about their study being "simply fizzing with poetry." Grim sprang a poem or a sonnet, or a tribute or some other forsaken variety of poetry, on pretty well everything about the place. He "_did_" the dawn and worked round to the sunset. He had a little shy at the church and the tombstones, and wrote about the horse pond's "placid wave." He did four sonnets on the school, looking from north, south, east and west, and let himself go in fine style about the school captain's batting. He sent this to Phil, and Phil passed the disquisition on to me; it was very funny indeed. Not a single thing was safe from his poetry, and he cut what he could of cricket to write "tributes." He had a lively time from his own particular knot of friends and enemies, and they jollied him to an extent that, perhaps, reached high-water mark, when Grim found one morning on his table a dozen thoughtful addresses of lunatic asylums, and specimens of the writing of mad people, culled from a popular magazine. But Grim recked not, and persevered. He turned out, as became a budding poet, weird screeds from Ovid, Virgil, and Horace--Bohn's cribs were simple to his tangled stuff--and Merishall beamed wreathed smiles upon him, and told him he was "catching the spirit of the original." After this patent, distinct leg-up from Merishall, Grim took the bit between his teeth and went careering up and down the plains of poesy until the lights were cut off. Wilson bore with his chum for a month, and then finally delivered his ultimatum. "If you're still a poet at midsummer, I'm going to cut, and dig with Rogers or Cherry. This den isn't big enough for you, me, and the 'original spirits' you wing every night. I'm off to the nets. Coming? No? Jove! Grimmy, what nightmares you must take to bed with you every night." But the kindly Fates had the keeping of the chums' friendship in their safe keeping, and I haven't observed yet, that Grim and Wilson are less friendly than they used to be. This consummation is owing to Miss Varley. This young lady, _ætat_ XIV, or thereabouts, was responsible for the reclamation of Grim. What the whole posse of his acquaintances with their blandishments and threats could not effect in the space of a month, she did within four and twenty hours. I cannot account for this, except on the supposition that little girls with long yellow hair and pretty brown eyes, and a perambulating blush, create mighty earthquakes in the breasts of rowdy fags. Miss Hilda Elsie Varley, being Biffen's niece, had taken the house under her protection, was more rabidly Biffenite than even Rogers, adored Acton, reverenced Worcester, and appreciated Chalmers, but despised fags who weren't "training-on" for one of her houses' various elevens. Her sentiments on these matters were mysteriously but accurately known amongst Biffenite juniors. Grim finally turned his poetical talents upon this young lady. I am not quite certain why he delayed so long. Perhaps he had waited until his gift of song had matured so that the offering might be worthy of the shrine, or perhaps because he had exhausted all other exalted subjects for his muse, but anyhow, he sent Miss Varley an ode on her birthday. This day was pretty generally known amongst Biffen's fags. When he had finished he read it to Wilson, who unbent from his antagonistic attitude towards poetry when he heard the subject of the verse. "After all, Grimmy, it doesn't sound more rotten than Virgil, and it _is_ rather swagger to say that Biffen's is to Hilda what Samnos was to Juno. It's a jolly lot more, though. © ISPmanager licensed