The man is dead now.
Dropped down a cud out beyond Karachi, and was brought home more
like broken meat in a basket. But that's another story.
The girl read It, and told It, and forgot all about It, and in a
week It was all over the station. I heard it from Old Bill Buffles
at the club while we were smoking between a peg and a hot weather
dawn.
J. K. S.
I was delighted with this. Another time he wrote a parody of
Myers' "St. Paul" for me. I will only quote one verse out of the
eight:
Lo! what the deuce I'm always saying "Lo!" for
God is aware and leaves me uninformed.
Lo! there is nothing left for me to go for,
Lo! there is naught inadequately formed.
He ended by signing his name and writing:
Souvenez-vous si les vers que je trace
Fussent parfois (je l'avoue!) l'argot,
Si vous trouvez un peu trop d'audace
On ose tout quand on se dit
"Margot."
My dear friend J.K.S. was responsible for the aspiration
frequently quoted:
When the Rudyards cease from Kipling
And the Haggards ride no more.
Although I can hardly claim Symonds as a Soul, he was so much
interested in me and my friends that I must write a short account
of him.
I was nursing my sister, Pauline Gordon Duff, when I first met
John Addington Symonds, in 1885, at Davos.
I climbed up to Am Hof[Footnote: J. A. Symonds's country house.]
one afternoon with a letter of introduction, which was taken to
the family while I was shown into a wooden room full of charming
things.
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