t to bed that night pretty cool towards each other,
but in the morning Grim was obstinately bent on being the poet as he
was the next week and the week after that. He wrestled with poetry
morning, noon, and night, and he made himself a horrible nuisance to his
old cronies. 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, _aetat_ XIV, or thereabouts, was responsible for
the reclamation of Grim. What the whole posse of his acquaintances with