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It is generally recognized that, in Mr. Mott, we have a real poet. There are loud cries of “Encore!” Mr. Mott shakes his head.

“I have written no more,” he says in a deep voice. “I have given you the result of three years’ work. Perhaps–in another three years–” He shrugs his shoulders and walks gloomingly out.

“Such a sweet idea,” says Lady Poldoodle. “I sit here and ask myself–wonderingly! How true! How very true!”

“I couldn’t quite follow it, dear,” says her neighbour frankly. “Did he marry her after all?”

Lord Poldoodle, looking slightly more cheerful, gets once more on to his legs.

“You will all be very glad to hear–ah–you will all be sorry to hear that we have only one more poet on our list this afternoon. Mr. Cecil Willow, the well-known–er–poet.”

Mr. Willow, a well-dressed young man, fair and rather stout, and a credit to any drawing-room, announces the subject of his poem–Liberty.

“Liberty, what crimes have been committed in thy name!” murmurs Lord Poldoodle to himself.

LIBERTY

There were two thrushes in a tree,
The one was tamed, the other free.
Because his wings were clipped so small
The tame one did not fly at all,
But sang to Heaven all the day–
The other (shortly after) flew away.

There were two women in a town,
The one was blonde, the other brown.
The brown one pleased a Viscount’s son
(Not Richard, but the other one)
He gave her a delightful flat–
The blonde one loved a man called Alfred Spratt.

There were two Kings on thrones of gold,
The one was young, the other old.
The young one’s laws were wisely made
Till someone took a hand-grenade
And threw it, shouting, “Down with Kings!”–
The old one laid foundation stones and things.

“How delightful,” says everybody. “How very delightful. Thank you, Lady Poldoodle, for such a delightful afternoon.”